


and we turn against the darkness with intention

by coffeejunkii



Series: Birds and Bridges [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 6am coffees on the fire escape, AU, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint and Natasha: BFFs, Clint's screwed-up childhood, Empire State of Mind, F/F, Food Trucks, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug, Phil wears glasses, birding nerdery, discussion of safe sex, discussion of suicide attempt, feelings are hard, magic hipster lattes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is happy with his life. He loves his job at the Parks department, loves the birds he works with, and loves his weekly lunches with Natasha. But then Phil Coulson stumbles into his life, and Clint realizes that what's been missing from his routine existence is a middle-aged homicide cop with a list of issues that rivals Clint's own.</p><p>Or, a story about falling in love in New York in the springtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rurounihime for listening to me babble about this fic all summer and for betaing.

“I know, I know, you hate this, but we're almost done,” Clint murmurs to the falcon chick wriggling in his lap. He sprays more solution onto the bird's wings. “You'll be grateful someday when your feathers are all shiny and free of mites.”

The falcon squawks.

“Whatever. I'm right.” Clint checks the band he put on the bird’s foot earlier to make sure it won't interfere with movements and then places the chick back into the nest box. He glances up at the male falcon, who has taken up a perch on the highest point of the bridge to keep a close eye on Clint. At least the parents aren't swooping down on him anymore, having learned over the past few weeks that Clint's visits to the nest don't pose an actual threat.

Clint reaches for the third chick. “Come here, little guy, let me take a look at you.” He cradles the little falcon in his palms. It has always been the smallest of the three, but it's now noticeably smaller than its siblings. Clint knows the chick is in trouble when it doesn't protest being handled. It makes him irrationally angry that the parents would neglect one of their offspring. Survival of the fittest is a bunch of bullshit that Clint isn't willing to put up with unless he absolutely has to.

“You're probably hungry, hmm? How about some delicious chopped mouse?” Clint pulls a container out of a pocket on his climbing harness. He always carries treats in case the chicks are too unruly. Or starving, in this case. The falcon eagerly swallows the bits of mouse Clint holds out to him. “That's yummy, right?” The chick almost nicks his finger in its eagerness.

When Clint has run out of mouse, the chick lets out a tiny screech. “I know, I wish I had more for you. Now let's take a look at your wings.”

Clint carefully unfolds one wing and sighs. The feathers are crawling with mites. Is that the reason the parents started to neglect this chick? Or is it just random, no reason at all, simply nature being wily? He sighs and sprays solution on one wing. The chick wiggles a little, which Clint takes as a good sign. At least it hasn't given up yet. He moves on to the other wing. As he stretches it, the falcon lets out a pitiful cry. 

“Ah, shit,” Clint mutters. The wing is in a sorry state. Aside from the mites, there's something wrong with the bone. The parents' neglect makes more sense now. A chick that won't be able to fly is doomed, after all. Or rather, would have been doomed if it had been borne somewhere else. “We'll get you all fixed up, you'll see. We'll take a little ride and see Bruce and he'll make it better.”

Clint places the bird into the padded pouch he carries for the express purpose of transporting injured chicks. The parents watch, but don't intervene, which tells him enough about the chances the little falcon would have out here. At least the other two chicks look plump and healthy.

As he walks back to the side of the pylon where he left his climbing gear, Clint takes in the view. The Hudson Valley stretches out in the distance, dark tree tops and early morning light reflecting off the river. To the south, even the tallest buildings of Manhattan seem small. This—being able to stand on top of a bridge shortly after sunrise—is one of the reasons Clint loves his job. 

Before starting his descent, Clint double-checks the primary and secondary ropes, and makes sure that the pouch with the chick is fastened tightly to his belt. He splashes some sanitizer on his fingers before pulling on his climbing gloves (no need to get mouse gut all over them), and then he's off. Some of the other bridges on his route have built-in ladders, but the George Washington Bridge doesn't, which is why Clint loves it. He gets to make his own way down the steel latticework of the tall pylon. Free-climbing on New York's bridges isn't exactly everyone's cup of tea, which is precisely why Clint got settled with the task of checking on birds' nests in the first place.

He's two-thirds of the way down when he spots the guy. There are a few people on the bridge at all times, usually long-distance runners or commuters on bikes. But this guy is in a suit, and that draws Clint's attention. The guy stops and turns to look out over the river, then hooks one leg over the railing and climbs over it.

Oh, fuck. No. Clint's been out on the bridge for years now, and he knows that people jump off it with frightening regularity, but he's never witnessed it. Doesn't ever want to witness that. 

He pushes off the pylon and lets the rope take his weight so he can zip down the rest of the way. He unhooks himself from the rope and starts walking, never losing sight of the guy who's holding on to the railing with one hand while staring down at the water. At least he's hesitant about this, which is good. Clint makes sure to walk as silently as possible so the guy won't see him coming. He has no idea what he's going to say—sure, he's had shitty times in his life, but never so bad that he wanted to jump off a bridge.

When he's only a few feet away, Clint says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Well, at least you picked a classic.”

The guy starts and his head whips around. He has a kind face and absolutely doesn't look like someone who has decided that it's all over. “What?”

Clint takes another step closer. He gestures to the bridge. “Classic option for suicide. More people jump off this bridge than any other in the city.” 

The guy cringes at the word 'suicide'. Good. Clint figures that if you're serious, the word isn't going to put you off. There's an opening here, small as it might be. The guy looks back out over the water, his mouth a tight line, as if he's steeling himself for something. “You can just fuck off,” he tells Clint.

“No.” Clint moves close enough that he can reach out and grab the guy if he has to.

“Who the fuck are you? Who gave you the right—” The falcon chick squawks and settles into a steady loud screeching. The guy looks at Clint, then at the pouch. “What do you have in there?” He's clearly still pissed off, but there's something else in his voice, too. Something authoritative.

“I'll let you see if you come over on this side.” Clint takes a step back from the railing. It's a gamble, but maybe...

The guy hesitates. 

_Come on. You don't really want to do this._ Clint takes a closer look at him. Definitely an expensive suit—not that he's an expert, but Natasha has drilled some fashion sense into him over the years. He's older than Clint, but it's hard to tell how much. Could be five years; could be ten. There are lines at the corners of his eyes, and he looks exhausted. Nevertheless, he doesn't look desolate. Clint has seen enough people in his life who were on the down and out. He's seen that look in the mirror. Not recently, but he remembers it well enough.

Finally, the guy straightens and climbs over the railing. “So?”

Clint's hands shake with relief as he unzips the pouch. “This little guy.” The chick looks up at both of them.

“What is that?”

“It's a two-week old falcon.” Clint runs a fingertip over the downy head. “I work for the Parks department. There's a nest up there—” He gestures to the top of the pylon. “This one has trouble with his wing, so I'm taking it to our vet.”

The guy's expression goes soft. “Will he be okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. He's a fighter.”

The guy nods.

Unsure of what else to say, Clint holds out his hand. “I'm Clint, by the way.”

The guy doesn't reciprocate, and Clint feels stupid standing there with his outstretched hand, but he's always been stubborn, so he doesn't back down. 

It pays off. “Phil.”

Clint shakes his hand. Out of habit he says, “Nice to meet you.” 

Phil's eyes dart away, back to the water. 

Purely on instinct, Clint holds on when Phil pulls out of the handshake. As long as he has a hold on Phil's hand, he can't jump. That earns Clint an annoyed look, which he ignores. 

“Phil,” he starts softly. He folds his other hand on top of the fingers already resting in his palm. “Look. I know it's not my place. But. Isn't there one thing, just one thing that maybe...maybe it might be worth living for?” 

Phil looks startled at the question, but he doesn't move. Doesn't answer, either. Clint's willing to wait as long as it takes. He cradles Phil's hand in his.

Eventually, Phil's shoulders slump and his other hand goes to his face, swiping across it. “Maybe there is,” he whispers.

Clint is utterly, utterly relieved. He has no idea how to respond. He tries to imagine what it would be like to come out here with the decision in the back of your mind that everything has come to an ending point, that there won't be a tomorrow, or a next year. That you drew a line and decided your future ends here. And then to decide to step back from that, to scratch out that line. To have an unknown number of days flood back into your life. He squeezes Phil's hand and holds it a little tighter because if that were him, he sure as hell would need something to hang on to in that moment.

Phil takes a deep breath and straightens. When he pulls his hand back this time, Clint lets go. Even though Clint is fairly certain that Phil wouldn't jump if they went their separate ways, he isn't entirely willing to take that chance. “I could use your help. Getting the chick to the vet, that is.”

“What would you need me to do?” Phil asks without hesitation.

“You could hold the little guy while we drive to Central Park. My truck's parked just off the bridge.” Clint is pretty sure that Phil knows that his help isn't really needed because it isn't as if Clint needs to master uneven terrain to get to the park. But he doesn't let on.

He nods. “Sure. I can do that.”

***

When they get stuck on FDR Drive in rush hour traffic, Clint texts Bruce to let him know that they're on the way with a new patient for him. Bruce texts him back in less than a minute with this week's code for the Central Park Zoo staff parking lot.

Clint keeps sneaking glances at Phil, who looks deep in thought and also a little pale. “I have a soda if you want.”

Phil's eyes are slow to come into focus. “That would be great, actually.”

Clint fumbles for his bag in the backseat and hands a bottle of coke to Phil.

“I didn't bother with breakfast,” Phil says with a shrug as he uncaps the soda. He keeps one hand folded around the pouch as he drinks.

“So, what do you do?”

“I'm a cop. Homicide.”

Not what Clint expected. Based on the suit, he thought hedge fund or consulting or some other job where you make money because you help rich people get richer. “Ever done anything else?”

Phil shakes his head. “My father was a cop, too. He insisted that I go to college, but I went to the police academy right after.”

Clint hums in acknowledgment. He wonders how Phil ended up in Homicide, and if that has anything to do with why he ended up at the bridge. 

“What about you? You climb bridges and look at birds?”

Phil sounds curious in an earnest way, lacking the mocking tone that Clint often gets even from people in the Parks department. “Yeah. Kinda. During nesting season, anyway. I make sure the birds in the parks are taken care of. Have shelter, aren't disturbed too much by people, that kind of thing. The bridges are technically under the MTA's supervision, but it's not like they have anyone who knows about birds, so the Parks department lends me out to them for the season.”

Traffic finally starts moving again. 

“That sounds like a nice job,” Phil says like he means it. 

“I like it.” Clint glances at Phil, who has a little more color in his cheeks now that he's finished the coke. “I have an energy bar, too.”

“I'm good.” He holds up the empty bottle. “That should keep me going for a while.”

Clint holds back a comment about how soda isn't exactly a substitute for breakfast. “You grew up in the city?”

“No, I'm from Chicago. I came here for college and never left. Did you grow up here?”

Clint takes the exit for 71st Street. “Nah. Iowa.” He waits for some sort of remark about corn-fed farm boys, but it doesn't come. Clint's grateful for that because he hates corn, and while he's fucked a farm boy or two, he's certainly never been one.

“So, are there falcon nests on all the New York bridges?”

Phil looks interested enough, and it's a safe topic that Clint can talk about for hours, so he loses himself in the history of various falcon nests and a description of this year's nesting season until they pull up at the zoo.

***

Bruce greets Clint with a warm smile and a hug. Clint's grateful that Bruce has a tendency to give the kinds of hugs that straight men usually shy away from, namely the full-body holding-you-tight kind. He clings and closes his eyes for a moment because holy shit, he talked someone down from the literal ledge and the significance of that hits him all at once.

When Bruce lets go, he raises his eyebrows at Clint, a silent _Are you alright?_ and Clint nods. He'll tell Bruce the whole story later.

Bruce steps around Clint and introduces himself to Phil, who still dutifully holds the pouch. “Bruce Banner. I'm the vet for the zoo.”

“Clint mentioned that. Phil Coulson.” A polite smile crosses his face.

“And I assume this is the falcon in need?” Bruce asks as he unzips the top of the pouch.

Clint nods. “Probably two weeks old. There are problems with his right wing. He's underfed and has mites. The parents already abandoned him.”

“How do you know that?” Phil asks.

“Experience,” Clint replies.

Bruce rests his hand on Clint's shoulder. “Let me take a look and see what I can do.”

***

Clint hangs back as they enter the exam room and watches Bruce check out the falcon while Phil asks a lot of questions. Clint wonders if the habit of asking questions is due to Phil's job. He probably talks to people all the time with the goal of extracting information. Or maybe not. Clint has no idea what it means to work in Homicide aside from what he's seen on TV. At least the questions Phil asks seem to derive from a genuine desire to understand, and Bruce patiently answers them. Clint knows that he'd prefer to work in silence, but he seems to appreciate the unobtrusive way in which Phil poses his questions.

“I can't say with certainty that he'll ever fly,” Bruce observes once he's done. “It's too early to tell. But if he doesn't, then he'll stay here.”

It's a weight off Clint's shoulders. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Phil strokes the falcon with careful touches and smiles. It's a nice smile.

Bruce looks at Phil and then at Clint. He curls his fingers around Clint's arm and says in a low voice, “Call me later?”

Clint nods. He'll tell Nat about all this, of course, but Bruce will let Clint ramble at him in a way that she has no patience for. “Tonight?”

“Tonight's good.”

***

“You and Bruce seem close,” Phil observes as they cross the staff parking lot.

Clint tries to parse if Phil is asking whether they're dating or not. It wouldn't be the first time for someone to make that assumption, after all. “Bruce is a good friend. But he's straight. And married.”

“Ah, I see. Is that a good or a bad thing?”

The question takes Clint by surprise, and he looks at Phil, and he wonders. “I'd say for him that's definitely a good thing. Bruce is...” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “He used to have really bad anger management issues, and I think the way he finally got over that is by channeling all his energy into kindness.”

“I wish more people were able to do that. The world would be a better place.”

Phil probably has seen his share of what happens when people cannot control their anger. “It would be. Anyway, that's why Bruce is, well, the way he is.” Which is, one of the most gracious and patient people Clint has ever met, and he's grateful that Bruce stumbled into his life a few years ago. “I can see why you thought—well, let's just say when I first met him, I didn't think he was straight, either.”

They've reached the Parks Department truck Clint uses, but Phil doesn't seem in a hurry to leave. “It sounds like there's a story there.”

Clint scratches the back of his neck. “Pretty embarrassing story, but fine. Bruce, being the nice guy that he is, agreed to play wingman for a friend who had a crush on one of Bruce's colleagues at the zoo. So Bruce figures out that his colleague usually hangs out at this bar on Saturdays, and he agrees to introduce the two and then hang around to...I don't know, make sure they hit it off, or whatever. Point being: I see Bruce at the bar around midnight, and think, fuck, how has no one hit that yet?”

Phil's smile is definitely knowing.

“So I'm my most charming self, and Bruce is very charming right back, and I buy him a drink, and we chat for a while, and I think that I have this in the bag.”

Phil's smile widens. 

“It's all going really well, and I figure I'll have a little taste of what's to come, so I kiss him. And at first, he kisses back, and it's a nice kiss, but then he pulls back and he says, in this really sheepish way that's so typical for Bruce, 'Uh, I'm straight, actually.'”

Phil bursts out laughing, the kind of full-on laughter that's pure joy, and it hits Clint straight in the gut. He watches the way Phil's eyes crinkle and _oh god_. He swallows.

Perhaps Phil mistakes Clint's reaction for annoyance. “Sorry, I didn't mean to—” Phil coughs as he stifles his laughter. “I've hit on too many straight men in my life, so I understand.”

Well, that clears away any remaining doubt. “It's fucking annoying. Bruce was really apologetic, of course, and he told me the whole story about his friend, who was nowhere to be seen at this point, and then we ended up talking about birds for most of the night.”

“Birds?”

Clint shrugs. “Uh. Yeah. Ornithology is Bruce's area of specialization.”

“So the night wasn't entirely a loss.”

“Nah. In the long run, I probably gained more than if I'd fucked him.” Phil doesn't take offense at Clint being blunt, which is good, because he hates having to censor himself. It takes him a moment to realize that he's just thought of Phil as someone who will spend more time around Clint, when it's entirely possible that he'll never see him again. The thought stings. “Listen,” he starts. “If you—if you give me your number, I'll text you an update on the falcon.”

Phil gives Clint a look that plainly says he's seen right through that thinnest of excuses, but he accepts Clint's phone anyway. He taps away for a minute before handing it back. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He types out _Falcon update coming soon!_ and hits send. “Sent you a text so you have my number, too.” 

Phil smiles and nods. “I should go. I'm late for work.”

It's such a simple sentence—such a throwaway remark, usually—but it means so much to Clint in that moment because Phil's going to go to _work_ and not jump off a bridge. “Can I—” It comes out strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “Can I drop you off anywhere?”

“No, that's fine. The F is just a few blocks from here.”

“You work downtown?”

Phil nods. “Second Precinct. Lower East Side.”

That's pretty close to where Clint lives. “Uhh, well, have a good day at work?”

“You too.” With a wave, Phil walks away.

Clint sits in his car for a while, feeling shaky and confused and overwhelmed by everything that's happened this morning. It's not even 10am yet and he thinks he could easily crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours.

Eventually, he texts Nat. _I'm completely and utterly fucked._

A few agonizing minutes go by before she responds. _Do tell_

_I met someone. It's complicated. Why do I always do this to myself??_

_Because you're you. Lunch tomorrow? ___

Lunch tomorrow is perfect because he can talk things over with Bruce and then give Nat the condensed version. _1pm? Kimchi Taco is at 52nd+6th tmrrw_

_Yes. (Never forget that ILU)_

She always adds that phrase to the last text she sends him. It often doesn't even register anymore, but today, Clint sees the words, really sees them, and whispers, “Love you, too, Nat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Great Lake Swimmer's "River's Edge."
> 
> In June, WNYC aired [a story](http://www.wnyc.org/blogs/transportation-nation/2013/jun/04/traffic-what-traffic-baby-falcons-nest-atop-new-york-city-bridges/) about falcons nesting on bridges in NYC and the person who climbs the bridges to make sure the birds are okay. I immediately thought that that would be a great job for Clint if, you know, he wasn't doing the whole Avenger thing. 40,000+ words later, here we are...


	2. Chapter 2

Clint is making coffee the next morning when his phone chirps to alert him of a new text. It's from Phil, who apparently is an early riser as well.

_I'm glad I'm still here today. Thank you._

Clint answers without even thinking about it. _I'm so glad, too._ Then he reads Phil's text about ten more times with increasing waves of longing, which is stupid and makes no sense because he doesn't even _know_ Phil. But as Bruce said last night, the heart wants what it wants, which was wonderful to hear, but ultimately not very helpful, especially because Clint's heart usually doesn't get what it wants.

Maybe Natasha can make more sense of this.

***

“So let me make sure I understand this correctly,” Natasha says. They've staked out a little corner on the sidewalk, with Nat's bike as a line of defense against a steady stream of Midtown office workers hurrying past in their quest for lunch. “You talked a suicidal cop off a bridge and now you think you have a crush on him?”

“Uhh. Yeah.” Although Clint doesn't think it's a crush. It's more of a gut feeling that tells him he shouldn't let Phil slip out of his life.

Nat takes a moment to dissect her kimchi bowl, neatly separating lettuce, chicken, and kimchi into separate corners. Someone bumps against her bike, which earns the suit a “Hey watch it, asshole!” She's as fiercely protective of that bike as she is of Clint, and she will defend both in equal measure. “This is not a good situation to get yourself into,” she finally says.

Clint sighs. “I know.”

“But.”

Nat knows him too well. He stalls by devouring more of his burrito. “But I still think that—there's something—I don't know, I can't explain it.”

“This isn't like rescuing a bird, Clint. People are more complicated than that.” Her voice is soft, but it has a hard edge to it.

“I know,” Clint mumbles. He knew that she'd react this way, which is why he really wanted to talk to her. She's saved his ass more than once when he wanted to jump headfirst into situations that would have ended badly for him.

“I thought Grindr was working pretty well for you.” Nat takes another bite of chicken.

“It's good for sex.” But not for anything else, and Clint has been thinking that he wants the anything else more.

“So?”

Clint shrugs. “Do you know how weird it is to buy your coffee from someone who looks vaguely familiar, and then you realize, oh shit, I know you because I've seen your profile on Grindr, and hey, nice dick, by the way?”

Natasha laughs. “Come on, I know you've enjoyed some of those dicks.”

“Fair enough.” Clint squashes the wrapper of his burrito into a small ball and lobs it into the trashcan on the corner with expert aim. “That doesn't help me with Phil, though.”

“Well, how about this?” Natasha's face says that she has A Plan. “Text him and ask him out for coffee. See how that goes. If he seems stable enough, take it from there.”

“I could do that...” Nat makes hand motions signaling that Clint should get on that. “What, now?”

“Yes.”

Clint takes out his phone. He thinks for a minute, then writes, _Do you like coffee?_ Natasha, who has been reading over his shoulder, snorts. “What? I'm trying to be, you know, subtle.”

“You're hopeless,” she replies with affection.

Phil texts back right away. _I do. Why do you want to know that?_

“See, that was a really confusing text—”

Clint shushes her with a wave of his hand. _There's an amazing place in the East Village. We could go on Sat if you want?_

As they wait for Phil's reply, both he and Natasha stare down at the phone as if it contains all secrets of the universe. “Write back, write back,” Clint mutters.

The phone chirps. _I'd like that. How about 4pm? Where should we meet?_

“Oh, thank god.” Clint is about to respond when he realizes he doesn't know where Phil will be coming from to meet him. “I have no idea where he lives.”

“Just tell him the closest intersection. Abraço, I assume?”

Clint nods.

“So, 2nd and what is it again?”

“7th,” Clint replies as he taps out the address. Phil's reply is brief. _Sounds good. I'll see you on Saturday._ Clint doesn't even bother trying to suppress his smile.

Nat smiles back at him, which he appreciates. Without a doubt she would have walked away from Phil had she been in Clint's place. “I should be off. Next patient is in Tribeca and Canal is a bitch this time of day.” She swings her bag over her head and straps it securely across her body.

“Be careful, okay?” Clint knows that she's amazing on her bike and that her mobility helps her to have a much broader client base than if she worked out of a PT clinic or had her own practice, but he still worries about her.

“You, too.” She takes a step closer. “Don't get your heart broken.” The 'again' remains unspoken.

Clint pulls her into his arms for a brief hug. “I'll try.” It's the best he can promise her, and he hopes that Natasha isn't right about Phil.

**

On Wednesday, Clint swings by the zoo to check on the falcon chick. He snaps a picture and sends it to Phil with the note _Doing much better now!_. From then on, they exchange a steady stream of texts, in which Phil complains about the subway ( _If the F runs local in Queens again, I'll strangle someone_ ) and paperwork ( _Why does everything need to be in triplicate?_ ), and Clint sends him more pictures of birds (ducklings, sparrows, cardinals, falcons, hawks) and of the trees in bloom in Central Park, in response to which Phil sends delighted comments and expresses his envy of how much time Clint gets to spend outside. He also finds out that Phil likes the pastries from the Greek bakery around the corner from where he lives and watches TV every night.

By the time Clint waits on the corner of 2nd and 7th on Saturday, Phil isn't only a guy who tried to jump off a bridge anymore. He has an inkling of what Phil's days are like—mostly long and boring as far as Clint is concerned, but then he has never been cut out for a normal nine-to-five job.

“Hi,” someone suddenly says from behind Clint, and he whirls around to see Phil walking up to him. His smile hasn't gotten any less charming in the five days since Clint last saw him. It's chilly for early May, so Phil's wearing a fitted charcoal sweater that looks incredibly soft and makes Clint feel underdressed in his ratty fleece jacket. But it's the glasses that make Clint's brain go offline. “You're wearing glasses,” he blurts out.

Phil's smile wanes. “I normally wear contacts during the week, but I've never quite gotten used to them, so I prefer glasses on the weekend.”

“I didn't mean—” Clint scrambles because he doesn't want Phil to think that he has a problem with the glasses. Quite the contrary. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting—I mean, they look good. Really.”

Phil ducks his head and the corners of his mouth quirk up again. “Thanks.” 

“Um, okay, the coffee shop's right there,” Clint gestures to the tiny storefront three doors down. “I should warn you, it's hipster central. It's the whole deal, you know, beards, wool hats no matter what the temperature is outside, only music from a record player, an espresso machine that takes up most of the space. But the coffee makes it all worth it.”

“I'm sure I'll survive.”

They start walking. Clint is about to open the door to Abraço when he remembers another crucial detail. “Oh, and it's cash only. I should've mentioned that.”

“It's fine. I have cash.” Phil briefly rests his hand against Clint's back as they step inside.

Okay, so Clint is maybe a little nervous. He really likes Phil, and he hasn't been on a real date in a long time. The air of pretentiousness that exudes from the twenty-something guy who takes their order doesn't help the state of Clint's nerves. He can't think of anything to say as they wait for their coffee—latte for Clint and a regular coffee for Phil, which here means a brewed-to-order single cup. The girl waiting next to them has an extended conversation on her phone about some party in Bushwick that she was at last night, and drink-order guy talks to the barista about a limited edition album release that's only available in vinyl because digital sound doesn't have nearly enough depth.

Phil leans close to Clint and whispers, “This really is quite the scene.”

Clint snorts, and three heads swivel into his direction. He bites his lip. “Promise the coffee's worth it,” he replies under his breath.

Their drinks are finally ready, and they retreat to the sidewalk. Clint groans when the first taste of rich foamed milk and perfectly brewed espresso hits his mouth. “God, this makes all the idiocy in there worth it.”

Phil looks equally blissful. “This is very good indeed.”

Clint has to take another sip before he can even think of more conversation. “I was thinking we could head to the park, but I owe it to my friend Nat to do at least five minutes of hipster watching.”

“Hipster watching?” Phil asks with amusement as he follows Clint across the street.

Clint leans against the wall right across from Abraço. “Yeah. Nat and I come here all the time, and we make up stories for the most hipsterish people getting coffee.”

“Nat's a...guy friend of yours?”

The thought alone cracks Clint up. “No, no, she's a girl friend. Um, but not a _girlfriend_. Obviously.” He'll have to text Natasha about this later because the idea of them as a couple is even more hilarious than the notion of him dating Bruce. It's also a little flattering that Phil is trying to find out if Clint has any other romantic interests.

“Obviously,” Phil repeats.

They watch a few customers come and go, and Clint is relieved that the silence between him and Phil doesn't feel too awkward.

“Alright, what's that guy's story?” Phil asks when a guy in his thirties, decked out in a beanie, oversized garish sweater, tight jeans, and a tote saying “support your farmers!” ambles toward the coffee shop.

“Oh, that's almost too easy.” Clint takes out his phone and gets a picture for Nat. “He spent five years in grad school for a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature with an emphasis on Slavic languages, then realized it wasn't really his thing, so now he teaches Russian to over-privileged Upper East Side toddlers while secretly hating himself for it and wishing he could run a co-op for the organic herbs he's growing in his rooftop garden.”

Phil nearly chokes on his coffee. “Wow. Are there really people like that?”

“Yes.” Clint rolls his eyes. “Way too many. Seriously. There was this one time when we were in there waiting for coffee and this woman starts debating the merits of shade-grown Sumatran coffee versus beans from the eastern slope of some mountain in Kenya, and Nat couldn't take it anymore, so she said, 'You wouldn't survive for two seconds if civilization broke down' and stormed out. Leaving me to wait another two minutes for our order, but the frosty looks on the hipsters' faces were priceless.”

“Sounds like she's a good friend.” 

Clint picks at the cardboard sleeve of his cup. “The best.” It comes out a little hoarse as all the fondness he has for Nat washes over him in a swift wave. Nat has been his rock for over ten years and he hopes he's been the same for her.

Phil nods, understanding and sadness mingling in his look, and Clint wonders if he doesn't have a Natasha in his life. “Do you want to go to the park?”

“Sure,” Phil replies and pushes off the wall.

**

They sit down on a shaded bench across from one of the many rose bushes in Tompkins Square Park. The roses aren't in bloom yet, but Clint knows they'll be bursting in only a few weeks. The trees above them have the last of the fresh spring green in their leaves, and the sun filters through them with mellow light.

“So, you mentioned you live in the East Village?” Phil asks.

“Yeah. Just a few blocks from here, on 9th.”

“You've lived here for long?”

Clint nods. “Almost twelve years.”

“I remember when this was a really rough neighborhood. God, that must be over twenty years ago now.” Phil shakes his head. 

“It's changed a lot.” Clint tips the last bit of coffee into his mouth. He's not used to talking about his life, which is probably why his previous attempts at relationships all went downhill. It's a lot easier when most of the conversation revolves around who tops and who bottoms and in what position they should fuck. But Clint wants to get to know Phil better, which means offering more insight into his life in return. “I really like it here, hipster coffee shops notwithstanding. My place is rent-stabilized, so I can't see myself moving any time soon.”

“That's lucky.” Phil stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “I used to live in Manhattan, but I got tired of living in an apartment the size of a postage stamp. Queens might not be as exciting, but at least I have room to breathe in my place.”

Clint slouches down a little. His arm brushes against Phil's and he's pleased when Phil doesn't pull away. “Yeah, there's no way I could afford my place at a normal price.” He hesitates; they are getting close to territory that Clint doesn't share very often. “I inherited it from my mentor at the Parks department. I still don't know how he managed to arrange that, but after he passed away, I got a notice asking whether or not I wanted to lay claim to the place, so. I moved in.”

Phil shifts a little closer. “That must have been a bittersweet moment.”

Clint draws in a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Have you been with the Parks department for a long time, then?”

Clint counts the years in his head. “Fifteen years. Shit, I hadn't realized it's been this long. I had a couple of odd jobs right after I moved here, and then I started with emptying trash cans in Central Park. John—he was my mentor—discovered that I had a knack for dealing with birds, so he moved me into a different department.” It's been a long time but the loss still haunts Clint. John had been the most stable adult he'd ever met up until that point in his life. “Taught me everything he knew.”

Phil turns his empty cup in his hands. “I'm sorry he isn't in your life anymore.”

“Me, too,” Clint agrees softly.

“What brought you to the city? If I'm not totally off about your age, you must have moved here when you were pretty young.” Phil paused. “Also, please tell me to shut up at any moment if I'm asking too many questions. I fall into interrogation mode sometimes and that's really not what I mean to do here.”

The questions don't bother Clint because they help him to keep the conversation going, but he appreciates the sentiment. He's pretty guarded about certain parts of his upbringing and he wants to keep it that way. “I came here when I turned eighteen. New York always looked cool in the movies, so I figured why not, anything's gotta be better than fucking Iowa.”

“You didn't enjoy the serenity of endless cornfields?” Phil teases in a way that intimates he isn't too fond of cornfields, either.

“Let's just say they didn't really enjoy me.” Clint shrugs. “I never bothered to hide. Being gay, I mean. I always kinda knew, and people could tell. That didn't go over too well.”

Phil studies him. “I can see why you wanted to leave. My mom was a total hippie and my dad went along with whatever my mom said, so they were much more relaxed about their son being gay than I was. It took me a long time to be okay with it.”

Clint doesn't do closet cases. Not that Phil strikes him as one, but he'd rather know now if Phil gets squeamish about PDA or has the tendency to introduce his dates as “friends.”

“I know that's not a cool thing to say,” Phil continues. “Because 'out and proud,' right? But the '80s were a really sucky time to figure out you were gay.”

Clint doesn't remember much from that time. He mostly has hazy childhood memories of wondering if nuclear war would break out and if Skynet would eventually take over, so he just nods.

“Okay, enough morose pondering of things long past,” Phil says with determination. 

“Well, I was going to ask what it's like to work Homicide, but I guess that's not a more cheerful topic of conversation.”

Phil sets the empty cup on the bench next to him and crosses his arms over his chest. “Not really. It's nothing like what TV makes it out to be, that's for sure.”

“So, no wild car chases and crazy shoot-outs?”

Phil huffs out a laugh. “Ha, no. Although I did get shot two years ago.”

“Shit.” Clint wasn't expecting that.

“It certainly wasn't pleasant. I'm mostly on desk duty now. Hence all the paperwork complaints.” Phil smiles, but it comes across as a little forced.

Clint decides to ignore the strain. “I hate paperwork. I have to keep track of the bird population, which I agree is important, but oh my god, the database entry drives me crazy. At least we have an intern for the summer that takes care of it. And thank fucking god for that.”

Phil's smile turns more genuine. “I wish I had minions who do my paperwork.”

“I bet you're good at it, though.” Phil seems like the type to be good at detail-oriented work.

“I'm really good at it, unfortunately.” He sighs. “I really like all the bird pictures you've been sending me, by the way. I have to confess that I usually don't pay much attention to birds, but I've noticed them more this week.”

Clint can't hold back a smile. Nat usually complains when he sends her more than three bird-related texts a day, but Phil seems genuine in his interest. “Um, if you'd like, we could see the hawks in Washington Square Park. There's a pair of them nesting on the NYU library.”

“Sure, I'd like that.”

Clint steers them south to avoid having to cross Astor Place on the way to the park. He hates that sprawling intersection at any time of the day. Besides, East 4th will lead them straight to library. 

When they get to Washington Square, it's an utter madhouse. Clint hadn't expected anything else; the park gets crowded on the weekends as soon as temperatures rise above freezing. Tourists mix with NYU students and local families, and there are at least four different kinds of music rising up from different corners of the square: drums mixing with piano, saxophone, and guitars. It's loud and boisterous and everything Clint normally avoids, but he does want to show the hawks to Phil. They head over to the south entrance; from there, they'll have a good view of the wide ledge on which the hawks have made their nest. Clint nods at some of the regular hawk watchers who have taken up position with binoculars and an impressive array of cameras. 

Looking up the imposing red stone facade of Bobst Library, Clint points to a window on the twelfth floor. “The nest is up there. Can you see?”

Phil brings up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “I think so? I see some twigs sticking out over the ledge.”

“Yeah. You don't see the three young birds?” They're a lot bigger than the last time Clint swung by the park. 

Phil squints. “No. I'm near-sighted, which probably doesn't help.”

“Well, it's pretty high up and I'm used to looking for them.” Clint sometimes forgets that his eyesight is above average. “The parents aren't there right now, but I'm sure one of them will return soon. If you have some more time, that is.”

“I'm not in a rush,” Phil says.

They sit down on a bench that has a good view of the library. 

“Is it common that hawks nest on a building?” Phil asks.

“Not that common, but also not entirely unusual, at least not here in the city.” Clint feels he's been given license to share more of what he knows, so he adds, “These are Red-tailed Hawks. They're widespread in the U.S., so it's not uncommon to see them around here. These two hawks have come to nest on the library for a few years. People have even named them—they're called Bobby and Rosie.” 

“Huh.” It's a noise of contemplation, not of boredom.

“They even name the chicks—” Movement catches Clint's attention. “Oh, that's Rosie.” The hawk circles the building once before landing on the ledge. 

“I see her! She's bigger than I expected.” Phil looks up at the nest with concentration. 

“I think she brought a rat with her,” Clint adds. 

“Tasty.”

Clint grins at Phil's wry tone. “Absolutely.”

“Do you swing by the park often to watch them?”

“When I have time.” Clint doesn't add that there's a webcam and that he has the livestream on whenever he's at his desk.

“Are they going to fly soon?”

Clint considers the size of the chicks. “Probably. Maybe another two weeks until they fledge. They'll stick close to the nest first, then spread out across the park for another few weeks, and then they'll take off.” 

Phil nods and settles more comfortably against the back of the bench, sitting close enough to Clint that their shoulders touch. It really isn't a very significant amount of contact, but Clint nevertheless has to bite his lips from showing how happy it makes him. Phil sneaks a glance at him and then ducks his head to hide his smile. 

Maybe Clint isn't the only one who is in a little over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more birding nerdery about Bobby and Rosie, see [this great post](http://urbanhawks.blogs.com/urban_hawks/2013/05/growing-up-fast.html) from the day before Phil and Clint go to see them.


	3. Chapter 3

On Saturday evening, Clint is making dinner when Phil texts him. _End of the worst week in a long time, thank goodness._

Clint frowns. _You're still at the precinct?_

_Yes. Heading home soon._

Clint glances at the pots simmering on the stove and hesitates for about twenty seconds before writing, _You should come over for dinner._

A minute passes. _I don't want to impose._

“Stop being so noble,” Clint mutters. _You're not. Please?_

Another minute passes. _Ok. Remind me of your address?_

Clint texts Phil his address and gets a quick reply saying he should be there in half an hour. 

**

True to his word, Phil rings Clint's bell about thirty minutes later. Clint takes two steps at a time as he bounds down five flights of stairs. “Hi,” he greets Phil, who's standing [on his stoop](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9630559127/sizes/l/) and looks like shit. His suit is wrinkled, his tie crooked, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. The leather bag he's holding has definitely seen better days.

“Hey,” Phil says quietly.

“I'm on the top floor, I'm afraid.” Clint's sorry that Phil has to climb all those stairs when he's exhausted, so he walks upstairs slower than he usually does. Phil appears winded nevertheless. Clint pushes open the door to his apartment. “Come in.”

Phil stops right inside the door and takes a look around the large studio. “It's very you,” he says with fondness.

“Thanks,” Clint mumbles. “Um, let me give you the tour. Windows, obviously.” He gestures at the three large windows that take up much of the wall opposite the door. “To your immediate right, the bathroom, and the door next to it is my closet.” Clint points to the platform in the opposite right corner. “My bed, and my work area underneath it.”

“Did you build that?”

“Yeah. When I moved in, I tore out all the walls to give myself more space. And I like heights, so I figured if I built a platform bed, I'd save some more space.”

Phil nods.

“Okay, straight ahead is the living room. Kinda.” It's just his couch, the trunk he uses as a coffee table, and the flatscreen mounted between two windows, but whatever. “And to your left, the kitchen.” It's small, with the sink, stove, some counterspace and the fridge all in a row. A breakfast bar divides the kitchen area from the living room.

“What's for dinner?” Phil asks, eyes intent on the two pots on the stove.

“Spaghetti and meatballs.” Clint hopes that doesn't sound too simple to Phil.

“Comfort food.”

“Yeah.”

Phil glances at Clint. “That's perfect.” He meanders over to the bookshelves that stretch along the wall to the left of the front door.

Clint follows. “Those were John's books. I'm not a big reader.”

Phil skims a few titles. “Some of these seem quite old.”

“Yeah, John collected illustrated books of birds. I have no idea if they're worth anything.” Not that Clint would ever sell them. “There are also some novels and biographies. All the trashy paperbacks are mine.”

That comment elicits a brief smile from Phil. 

“Dinner's almost ready.” Clint wanders over to the stove to check on the spaghetti. Phil blinks a few times and brings his fingers up to his temple. “Are your eyes bothering you?”

“Yeah. I got called in last night at three am and I've had my contacts in since then.” Phil sighs. “Actually, would you mind if I used your bathroom? I have my glasses with me and it would be really nice to switch to those.”

“Of course.” Clint can't quite suppress the flicker of excitement at seeing Phil in his glasses again.

While Phil is in the bathroom, Clint drains the spaghetti and finishes seasoning the meat balls. He sets out plates and silverware on the breakfast bar. Going with the assumption that Phil drinks beer, he takes two bottles out of the fridge and uncaps them. 

Phil emerges wearing his glasses. He has taken off his jacket and tie, both of which he lays on the top of the couch. Crossing the room, he comes to a halt at the window closest to the kitchen, looking out onto the rooftops. Surreptitiously watching him, Clint realizes that Phil doesn't only look tired; he looks sad. He turns off the meatballs and puts a lid on the pot. Coming around the breakfast bar, he stops next to Phil. He wants to rest his hand on Phil's back, but isn't sure if that's welcome. “Are you okay?”

Phil nods, but Clint can tell that his heart isn't in it.

“Really?” Clint prods gently.

It takes a few moments, but then Phil shakes his head. “Did you hear about the murder in the West Village last night? The gay man who got shot in front of the Barnes & Noble on 8th?”

“Yeah.” Bruce had texted him this morning to let him know. Clint found it difficult to process the news. A murder is bad enough, but a hate crime? In the West Village? It hits far too close to home. 

“It's not my precinct,” Phil begins haltingly. “But it was an 'all hands on deck' kind of situation.”

“You worked the case?”

Phil nods.

Clint's entire body seizes up for the span of two breaths. He cannot imagine what that was like for Phil; Clint knows that he's been in this line of work for a long time and has probably seen the most horrific violence, but it's obvious that this murder rattled him. Clint moves closer, bumping against his side. When Phil doesn't pull away, he slides his arm around Phil's waist and tugs. With a sigh, Phil folds himself into Clint's embrace.

Clint brushes a hand over Phil's nape. “I'm so sorry,” he murmurs.

Phil presses himself closer. His hands curl into Clint's T-shirt. “I never imagined—” He breaks off, and Clint can feel him take a few rapid breaths. “It's 2013. This shouldn't be happening.”

“I know.” He's been telling himself the same thing all day. Nat had texted him in the afternoon, saying _If you go out tonight, pls be careful (Never forget that ILU)_ , and Clint had sat with the phone in his hand for a good long while thinking, _What if that had been a someone I know? What if that had been me?_ He doesn't make accommodations for homophobic assholes, least of all in a neighborhood like the West Village, and from what he's heard on the news, that kind of refusal is exactly what led to this murder.

He settles his head on Phil's shoulder and holds on tighter.

“We made an arrest,” Phil says. He strokes a hand down Clint's back. “So that's something at least.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees half-heartedly. He's glad that Phil hasn't pulled away yet because if he's honest with himself, he's in need of some comforting, too.

When they sit down to dinner, they remain quiet. Phil compliments Clint on the food, which is honest praise judging by the way Phil's digging into his spaghetti. The silence that settles around them is comfortable, which only makes Clint like Phil more. Clint has a tendency to ramble, especially when his emotions get a better of him, but sometimes he isn't in the mood to talk, yet still wants someone around. That's one reason why he and Nat get along so well. She's good at silence. Perhaps Phil is, too.

Phil helps to load the dishwasher and straighten up the kitchen after dinner. When Clint puts the empty beer bottles into the recycling, he asks, “Do you want another?”

“No, thanks. I should—I should probably head out.” He looks past Clint at the door.

“You don't have to,” Clint replies quickly. He doesn't want Phil to leave yet, in part for purely selfish reasons, but also because he doesn't think Phil should be alone at the moment. He looks less weary than when he first arrived, but that air of sadness is still there.

It's easy to see that Phil is torn. “I wouldn't want to interrupt any plans—”

“The only plan I had for tonight was to watch a bald eagle documentary I DVR-ed.” Clint will plead if he has to. 

Phil darts another glance at the door.

“I'd really like you to stay.” 

“Well...okay. If you're sure.” 

Clint waits until Phil's looking at him. “I'm very sure. Absolutely sure, even.”

“Okay.” It seems more directed at himself rather than Clint, almost as if he needs to convince himself that it really is fine to stay. Phil moves to sit down on the couch. “Bald eagles, huh?”

Clint ponders for a moment if he should leave a respectable distance between himself and Phil. _Ah, fuck it_. He sits down close enough for their bodies to align. Phil relaxes against his side and Clint slides lower to prop his feet up on the trunk. He digs out the remote from between the cushions. “I'll have you know that they're fascinating. As you're about to find out!” 

“I'm sure to be all ears.”

Phil does pay close attention for about fifteen minutes and then nods off, his head slumping against Clint's shoulder. It's unsurprising considering that Phil has been up since three this morning and had a rough day. Clint tries to focus on the documentary, but Phil's head keeps lolling, which can't be comfortable for him. He grabs a pillow and places it on the lap, then nudges Phil to lie down. 

Sleepy protesting noises from Phil lead Clint to murmur, “It's okay, just want you to go to sleep, okay? Shh.” He slides Phil's glasses off his nose and sets them aside.

Phil settles, turning onto his side with his face pressed against Clint's stomach. He lets out a few snuffling noises of pure comfort that make warmth unfurl in Clint's chest. God, he is so well and truly fucked, and he doesn't care one bit. He'd let Phil fall asleep in his lap every day if he could. He runs his fingers through Phil's fine hair and then settles a hand on his side, which rises and falls with slow breaths.

Not for the first time he wonders what it is that's made Phil's life so difficult that he couldn't imagine carrying on. Were the people in his life unable to tell how miserable he was? Or was Phil so good at pretending to be fine that no one would have ever suspected? Probably the latter. Clint wants to make a difference in Phil's life, presumptuous as that wish is considering they have known each other for all of three weeks. At the very least, Clint can be there for Phil.

Clint forces his attention back to the eagles. His eyes grow heavy after a few minutes. Maybe if he closes them for just a little while...

He's surprised to wake up much later to a dark room illuminated by the TV, which has defaulted back to the DVR menu. He squints at the time on the screen—11:43. Phil is a heavy weight against him. Clint is loath to interrupt his sleep, but they should move to the bed if they don't want to wake up cramped and aching in the morning.

“Hey,” he calls out softly, rubbing Phil's side.

Phil comes to slowly, clearly surprised to find himself in Clint's lap. He blinks a few times and sits up, swaying a little. His hair is sticking up and there are creases on his cheek where Clint's T-shirt bunched against it. “What time is it?”

Clint hands him his glasses. “Almost midnight.”

Phil groans. “Shit, it'll take forever to get home.” He rubs a hand over his face before putting on the glasses.

Clint flips on the lamp next to the couch, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as they adjust. “You can't—Phil, you're in no state to make it all the way to Queens.” 

Phil slumps forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. “Yeah, you're probably right about that.” The last word almost gets swallowed by a yawn.

Clint's glad that Phil doesn't put up a fight about this. There's no way he would have let Phil go—cop or not, the farthest Phil can walk right now is to Clint's bed. He stands up and holds a hand out to Phil. “C'mon.”

Phil hesitates. “I'm good with the couch.”

Oh, great. Clint isn't sure if Phil is being polite, or if he feels that getting into bed with Clint crosses some sort of line—although Clint really just wants to sleep at this point. If he has Phil next to him, that's merely a nice bonus. “My bed's big enough for two, I promise, but if you really don't want to—you need the rest. I can take the couch. I'll even put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“No, no, that's, you don't have to do that.” Phil falls silent, clearly weighing his options.

Clint waits him out. He's not sure what Phil's issue is, but then his sense of boundaries is a little fucked. He keeps strangers and people he doesn't know well at arm's length, but once he lets someone in, they're in, and Clint doesn't mind if they invade his space, which includes his bed. Hell, he and Nat crash together all the time.

“Alright,” Phil finally says. He stands up. “Could I borrow something to sleep in?”

“Uhh. Sure, yeah.” Clint walks over to this closet. “What do you want?”

“T-shirt's fine. I just don't want to sleep in my clothes.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Clint picks his Pride '05 shirt because it's been washed so many times that it's really soft. “Here.”

Amusement flickers across Phil's face. “Thanks.”

“Um, I'll go brush my teeth,” Clint says as Phil starts on his belt.

He takes his time in the bathroom to give Phil some privacy. When he steps back into the living room, Phil's in his T-shirt—and yes, that does thrill Clint just a little bit—and boxers. “Found an unused tooth brush. It's by the sink.”

Phil acknowledges him with a smile and a nod as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

Clint shucks his clothes and grabs a T-shirt and pajama pants from his closet. Normally, he just sleeps in his briefs, but that seems a little forward. He climbs the ladder to the bed and scrolls through his email as he waits for Phil. Steve's sent him a long update on the Stark situation, which Clint reads with a mix of amusement and frustration. If this drags on much longer, he's going to conspire with Nat to stage an intervention. 

When the light next to the couch clicks off, Clint puts down his phone. “Can you see?” He asks as Phil starts up the ladder.

“Yeah, I'm good.”

The mattress dips and Clint moves over to leave plenty of room. He watches as Phil sets his glasses on the shelves built into the head board and fluffs his pillow before lying down. Phil glances at him, and Clint looks back. He doesn't hide that he _wants_ —wants to get closer, wants Phil in his life, wants to get into Phil's pants. Phil holds his gaze for longer than Clint expects, then turns his eyes toward the ceiling. It might be dim in the room, but Clint saw the longing directed at him. It's Phil's move, though. He seems more hesitant about what's developing between them, for reasons that might be the same ones that drove him to the bridge. Clint's not going to push, but he hopes Phil knows by now that he's interested.

Actually, Phil would have to be blind not to have noticed Clint's interest. And Clint knows it's mutual because he's seen the looks Phil gives him. They're not of the “let's just be friends” variety. Maybe Phil likes to take it slow. Which is fine. It's not how Clint usually does things because he gets in too deep too fast when there's time for feelings to develop. It's easier to fuck someone a few times and move on. But with Phil—well. For one, it's already too late to hold himself back. But he also knows in an inexplicable and irrational way that Phil will keep his heart safe.

Phil turns onto his side, away from Clint, and Clint figures they're going to sleep. He lets his eyes close and starts to drift off when he hears a whispered, “Come closer?”

_God, yes_. He curls around Phil's back. “This good?”

“Yeah.” 

Clint wraps his arm around Phil and tucks himself close. It's been a while since he's had the chance to hold someone like this. He's almost forgotten how nice it is. Nat will let him, sometimes, but it's because she's indulging him, not because she really wants or needs to have him that close. Clint hopes that Phil both wants and needs him close.

Phil's a little tense at first, but gradually allows Clint to take more of his weight as he leans back against him. His fingers skate across Clint's hand where it's pressed against Phil's chest, back and forth. 

Clint struggles to stay awake because he wants to hold on to this moment, but he's warm and comfortable and safe in way he hasn't been that often in his life, and the combined force of that pushes him into sleep.

**

Phil is still there the next morning, and he stays through a long breakfast—coffee and eggs because Clint wants to drag this out—and when he finally leaves, he curls a hand around Clint's neck and kisses him, brief and soft, as if they kiss like this all the time. 

“See you soon?” Phil asks.

“Yeah.” Clint is too stunned to say anything else.

Phil smiles at him, and he looks happy as he waves at Clint while heading down the stairs. Clint looks after him and wonders just how soon he can see Phil again, and more importantly, when he can kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to add some pictures to the story. Unless specified otherwise, all photos were taken by me.
> 
> I wish I could say the murder mentioned in this chapter was fictional, but sadly it did indeed happen this May. You can find out more in [this NYTimes article](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/19/nyregion/killing-in-greenwich-village-looks-like-hate-crime-police-say.html).


	4. Chapter 4

On Sunday afternoon, Nat finally replies to the text Clint had sent her right after Phil left ( _Holy shit, Phil just kissed me_ ) to suggest lunch for the next day.

 _Sure, where+when?_ Clint isn't that picky about food, but Natasha's preferences vary widely depending on her mood.

_Wafels & Dinges, Great Lawn, 1pm?_

Waffles for lunch? That only meant one thing. _OMG YOU GOT LAID!!!!_

She ignores Clint's exclamation and merely writes back, _See you tmrrw (Never forget that ILU)_.

**

“You totally got laid and don't bother denying it,” is the first thing Clint says to Nat as they get in the line for the [waffle truck](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9580713226/sizes/l/).

“And what if I did?” Natasha replies while studying the menu. Which isn't very long and she knows by heart.

“Then I'd say, good for you, and I want all the details. Not the TMI details, just the, you know, who he is and so on details.”

“I'm definitely having the speculoos for one of my dinges,” Nat replies.

Clint just laughs at her. Clearly he won't get an answer until they have their food. There are a few people ahead of them. It's crowded in the park even though it's a Monday. Families with kids and dogs, groups of teens, and wide-eyed tourists amble past them in search of a shady spot under the many trees that ring the large meadow.

Nat orders the [Liege waffle](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577927101/sizes/l/in/photostream/) with bananas, chocolate sauce, speculoos, and whipped cream. Clint decides on the more modest strawberries and speculoos with his waffle. They find a free [bench](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577927939/sizes/l/) facing the pond, with a view of Belvedere Castle across the water. 

“Seriously, you did meet someone. Otherwise we wouldn't be having waffles for lunch.” Clint tries to tear off a piece of waffle with his fork, to no avail. He gives up and starts using his fingers even though they'll be covered in sticky goo in under a minute. Ah, the perils of Wafels & Dinges. “What's his name?”

“Her name is Maria.” Nat is carefully mixing all her toppings together.

“Huh, I thought you were done with women because they are too complicated and get attached too fast?”

Nat shrugs. “She doesn't seem like the type to get attached. She works for the UN and travels a lot. It's just a little diversion for both of us.”

“Hmm.” Clint hastily licks a few drops of speculoos from his palm. 

“Just hmm?” Nat hacks her waffle into little pieces and then stabs two of them onto her fork. “None of your usual 'way to go'?”

“Well...” Clint begins as he chews on some strawberries. “Don't you ever think of something more than just short-term?”

Nat regards him carefully. “Does that have to do with Phil?”

Clint takes another bite of his waffle. “Maybe?”

Her eyes narrow. “He kissed you, right?”

“Yeah.” Clint can't keep a smile off his face. “He, um, he stayed over on Saturday.”

“So you had sex.”

It's not surprising that she'd jump to that conclusion. “Uhh, no. He just literally slept with me. In my bed.”

“You're serious about him,” she says slowly.

Clint nods as he chews another piece of strawberry.

Nat doesn't reply and returns to forking more waffle.

“He didn't have a good week. He worked that murder in the Village and I think it really got to him.” Clint doesn't need to add that it hit him pretty hard, too, because she already knows that.

Nat's expression softens. “Understandable.”

“Yeah. So he came over and we had dinner and then we both kind of fell asleep while watching TV, and—” Clint pauses. “I didn't want him to be by himself, so I asked him to stay over.”

“Were you worried he might try to jump off a bridge again?”

Clint weighs that question. It hadn't really been at the forefront of his mind. “No...he was tired and—and sad.” Remembering that look on Phil's face hurts.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but is it possible that you're doing this because you think you can fix him?”

Clint studies his waffle. “You asked me the same thing last week.” 

“It's still relevant. Is this a project or is this really about him?” Nat presses on.

That's unfair because Clint doesn't just let people into his life, and she knows that. Sure, he wants to help Phil, but that's not because he's a charitable project; it's because he wants Phil in his life for as long as he can have him. Making sure that Phil is okay and isn't thinking about jumping off bridges is pretty important to having him around. 

He's about to respond when she adds, “You've done it before.” 

The wavering in her voice draws Clint's eyes. She looks vulnerable, which is not something she lets other people, even Clint, see often. “That was different,” he whispers. “And things got better for both of us, didn't they?”

He didn't fix or save her—they saved each other. When he and Nat met, neither of them was in a good place in their lives. They were living day-to-day, unsure of what the future held for them. They scraped by, but barely. Clint remembers the worry about money as a constant thrum in the back of his mind. They made it out of that phase in their lives because they started to trust each other and pooled their resources.

Nat's head dips forward and her hair falls around her face to obscure it. Clint rests his hand on her arm until he can see her shoulders lift and fall with a determined intake of breath. They don't often talk about that time. It was hard enough to make it through; no need to revisit it. Sometimes Clint feels guilty because he had John and Nat, and she'd only had him, and Clint isn't that good at sage advice. But then Nat has always been the braver one of the two of them.

He leans against the back of the bench and stretches out his legs. The sunlight bounces off the pond and Clint loses himself in the dance of light on water.

Nat's voice pulls him back to the here and now. “Have you talked to Phil about what drove him to the bridge?”

Clint drags a few pieces of strawberry through the pool of speculoos in the cardboard waffle tray. “No. It's not exactly something that comes up in casual conversation.”

“Just—watch out, okay? Sounds like you're both getting attached really fast, and you don't want to be the one who helps to put him back on his feet and then he moves on.” She finishes the final two pieces of her waffle.

Clint knows that she's only looking out for him, and rationally, he knows that she has a point, but a fierce protectiveness wells up in him regardless. “Phil's not like that.”

“You don't know that.” She's using her kindest voice, the one she only uses when she is truly worried about him.

Clint sighs. “I want to try this with him. I want to—” he stops, unable to finish that line of thought in his own mind.

“Talk to him, then. If he's serious about this, too, then he should be willing to tell you.”

Easier said than done, Clint thinks. 

**

After they part ways, Nat's words linger in Clint's mind. Rationally, he knows that she's right, that things with Phil are happening fast—maybe too fast. But being with Phil feels right, too. Clint walks across the park, somewhat aimless at first, but then toward the zoo. He cuts through [the Ramble](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9055409104/sizes/l/) to avoid the crowds on the more popular paths and finds it almost empty. The breeze sweeps through the tree tops and birds sing all around him. There's a cardinal nearby, and a robin a little further away. Clint closes his eyes and listens. The familiar sounds calm his thoughts, but they don't make him want Phil any less. 

Before he can change his mind, Clint pulls out his phone and calls Phil. They have only texted so far, but Clint really wants to hear his voice. It rings a few times, and Clint almost hangs up, realizing that this is stupid and he doesn't really know what to say. An automated voicemail comes on, informing him that Phil's unavailable. The tell-tale click sounds in Clint's ear before he can disconnect the call. 

“Um, hey, it's, uh, me. Clint. I—I just wanted to say hi.” Clint cringes at how pathetic that sounds. “You don't have to call me back. Okay. Um. Bye.” He hangs up and groans. This might be the worst message he's left in his life.

Clint picks the fastest way out of the Ramble. He needs some of Bruce's preternatural calm around him, and it wouldn't hurt to hear his take on Nat's concerns.

He's almost at the zoo gate when his phone chirps. It's a text from Phil. _Stuck in meetings, but saw you called. Everything okay?_

Clint sighs. _Yes. Don't worry about it._

_I'll call you later._

Clint almost writes back that that's unnecessary, but he's not a saint. The prospect of talking to Phil after work can get him through the rest of this day.

Bruce isn't in his office because of a sea lion emergency. Clint decides to visit the little falcon instead, who is preening his feathers when Clint steps close to the cage.

“Well, hello there, you're looking a lot better.”

The falcon ignores him.

“I see how it goes. No respect for the guy who saved you.” He carefully opens the door to the cage. “Are you going to let me take a look at you?” The falcon nips at his hand, but allows Clint to lift him out of the cage. “Feisty, aren't we?”

The chick is content enough to settle in Clint's arms and ruffles its feathers. They're soft under Clint's fingers. “I'm glad you're okay. I bet Bruce is taking good care of you.”

He feeds the falcon a few treats, which the chick happily gobbles up, and checks the injured wing. It seems nearly healed, and he wonders if it will allow the little bird to fledge soon. He'll have to check in with Bruce about that.

Clint takes a picture of the falcon for Phil before returning the chick to his cage. 

As Clint is walking back to his office on the other side of the park, his phone rings. It's Phil. Clint ignores the way his heart leaps in his chest.

“Snuck away for five minutes,” Phil says as a greeting.

Clint smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi.” The matching smile is easy to hear in Phil's voice. “What did you want to talk about?”

Sitting down on a bench, Clint tries to think of something and fails. “Um. Nothing really. Just—I don't know.” He can hardly tell Phil that he only called to hear his voice.

“Nothing happened, right?”

“No, I'm fine. Just work.”

“Ah.”

This isn't going well. Awkward silences on the phone are one of Clint's least favorite things, which is why he always prefers to text. “How's your day?”

Phil sighs. “It's Monday. That pretty much sums it up.”

“Yeah, doesn't it?”

There's another pause, and then Phil asks hesitantly, “When do you get off work?”

“Um. I started pretty early today, so I could probably leave by 3:30.”

“Would you like to meet up? For coffee or something else? If you don't have any other plans, that is.”

Clint's glad that he's already sitting down because the relief he feels at the prospect of being able to see Phil rushes through him like a tidal wave. “No plans. We could—there's a cafe I like near where I live, on 12th and Avenue A. Ost Cafe.”

“Sure, that sounds good. I can probably be there by four-ish.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“Looking forward to it. Bye.”

“Bye.” Clint clutches his phone and tries to rein in his emotions. This is ridiculous. Phil better feel the same way or Clint is going to end up with a broken heart again.

**

As soon as Clint steps into Ost Cafe, he feels less tense. Light floods into the small room through the floor-to-ceiling windows that take up the entire front. Most of them are open and let in a cool breeze. There are only about eight tables; about half are taken by people hunched over laptops. This is one of the reasons why Clint likes this place—people come here to work, which means it's usually fairly quiet, at least during the week. It's also not a total hipster scene, but rather a good mix of students, people Clint's age, and some of the neighborhood veterans who have lived here for decades. The few conversations going on blend in with the music that's neither too loud nor too soft. 

Clint orders coffee and takes it over to [one of the small tables](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9845556535/sizes/l/) facing the open windows. He's a little early, so he pulls out his well-worn field journal and makes some notes about his early morning trips to various bridges. 

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice Phil until he's standing next to the table, greeting Clint with a mumbled “Hi” and a kiss to the cheek. Phil's fingers linger on the back of Clint's neck for a moment.

“Hey,” Clint chokes out. His brain is catching up to the fact that Phil's there, and that the brush of his fingers felt really really good.

Phil deposits his bag next to the chair opposite Clint and drapes his suit jacket across the back. His tie is gone, the top button of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Clint wonders if that is Phil's standard post-work look. If so, he hopes to see it again many times.

“Sorry I'm a little late,” Phil says. “I got drawn into a shift-scheduling dispute. Can I get you anything?”

“I'm good.” A fraction of a second later, Clint changes his mind. He grabs Phil's wrist, and Phil uses some sort of ninja maneuver to reposition their fingers until they're loosely entwined. Which Clint doesn't mind. At all.

“Yes?” Phil asks with amusement.

“Get a cookie?” Clint gestures to the large glass jar on the counter, which holds cookie sandwiches that consist of two chocolate chip cookies held together by a thick layer of Nutella.

Phil's eyes light up. “Okay.”

Clint finishes up his notes as Phil waits for the latte he's ordered.

“I hope you were planning on sharing that,” Phil says when he sets down his mug and a plate with the cookie. “Or I might have to get my own.”

“Nah, we'll share.” Clint breaks the cookie in half and wonders if Phil has a sweet tooth.

“Oh, this is—this is fantastic,” Phil says after the first bite.

Clint nods, too busy marveling at the intense burst of rich chocolate to form words. They finish the cookie in silence. Phil's eyes linger when Clint licks a stray drop of Nutella off his thumb, and he doesn't look away when Clint returns his gaze. It stokes the longing that Clint has felt all day. He almost regrets not suggesting somewhere more private because he wants Phil closer to find out what it's like to kiss him for longer than the brief press of lips they shared yesterday.

“So, did you resolve the scheduling thing?” Clint asks for lack of anything better.

Phil waves him off. “You don't want to hear about that.”

“I do. Tell me.” The actual scheduling doesn't interest him, but it sounds like a frustrating task, and he wants to give Phil the chance to get that off his chest.

Phil launches into a complicated explanation of needing to balance vacation time, ballet recitals, doctor's appointments, and a dozen other preferences and requests. It sounds rather headache-inducing and Clint is glad that the bird population database is the most elaborate paperwork he has to deal with.

At one point, Phil rests his hand flat on the table, and Clint can't help nudging his fingers because Phil is right there, across from him, and yet feels so far away. He doesn't expect Phil to turn his hand palm up and slide it under Clint's. Clint has no idea what Phil's talking about for the next minute because all he can focus on is that Phil's holding his hand. It's not just the feeling of Phil's fingers against his own, but also that Phil took his hand without a second thought to being in public. It settles a question Clint had had ever since Phil explained that it took him a while to come to terms with being gay. Granted, that probably was a long time ago, but the effects of that kind of struggle can linger—Clint has seen it before. And it matters to him that he can be affectionate with Phil in public without having to second-guess himself.

“But enough about me,” Phil says, perhaps noticing Clint's absent-mindedness. “How was your day? You still haven't told me why you called me earlier.”

Clint almost tells him that it was just a silly impulse to hear Phil's voice. But he doesn't because it seems overly sappy to share, and besides, it would give away just how invested Clint is in this thing they have going on. “It was just—really, it was nothing.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the photo of the falcon chick. “But I think you'd be interested in this.”

The look on Phil's face communicates loud and clear that he's aware of Clint's diversion. He lets go of Clint's hand to take the battered phone. “Oh, look at him.” Phil smiles down at the picture. “He seems a little grumpy.”

“Ah, yeah, I ran out of treats. He's doing well, though. Might even fly.”

“Yeah?” Phil looks up at him.

“I'll have to double-check with Bruce, but I think so.” Clint's thumb is right next Phil's wrist. He can't resist stroking across it. 

Phil turns his hand over again, but doesn't reach for Clint. “That's wonderful.”

“Yeah.” Clint slides his fingers across Phil's palm and curls them around it. Phil closes his grip over Clint's and holds on tight.

**

They both have another round of coffee and chat about Phil's love of mindless television and Clint's pet peeve of inefficient supermarket bagging. When the staff begins to ready the counter for its transformation from coffee shop to wine bar around seven, they decide it's probably time to head home. Clint turns into the direction of his place on autopilot, and Phil doesn't seem to mind even though heading the opposite direction to Union Square would be more efficient for his subway trip home.

“This is me.” Clint's observation isn't necessary, of course. Phil knows where he lives. But he's a little nervous about saying good-bye because he doesn't know if Phil's expecting a hug or a kiss or nothing.

“Right.” Phil seems uncertain as well. “So, do you have plans for the weekend?”

“Nope, no plans.” Clint pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which, as he only notices now, have flecks of mud all over them from when he had to cut back some reeds to give the ducks on the lake in Central Park more space for nesting. Great, he looks like a total slob. That always leaves a good impression.

“Do you want to make plans?”

There's something Clint has been wanting to do with Phil ever since they watched the hawks in Washington Square. “If you don't mind getting up early on the weekend, we could go birding in Central Park.” Hopefully, that doesn't strike Phil as too boring or nerdy.

“I'd love that,” Phil says right away and gives him a wide smile, eye-crinkles and all. 

“Okay, great, yeah. Um, we can text about where and when, but seven's probably the latest we should meet.”

Phil nods. “That's fine.”

“Okay.”

It's clearly time to say goodbye, and they stand facing each other, but Clint doesn't know what to do. He wants to kiss Phil, obviously. A real kiss where he can pull him close and feel Phil's arms around his back and maybe coax his tongue into his mouth. But he isn't sure if Phil's on board with that, and hears Nat's words echo in his mind about getting attached this fast. Phil's looking at him, and Clint thinks he's waiting for something, but then he takes a step back. 

“See you Saturday?” Phil asks, voice a little tight.

Clint's entire body aches because he knows he missed his chance. “Yeah.”

Phil gives him a final nod and turns to walk down the street. 

Clint spares himself the pain of watching him walk away. When he enters his apartment, he drops his bag, kicks off his shoes, and flops down onto the couch. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. 

**

Around eleven that night, Clint is in bed catching up on the latest issue of _Birding_ when his phone rings. It's Phil. Worry spikes in Clint and he answers with, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm—shit, I shouldn't have called so late. Sorry.”

“No, that's, I just thought, um. Hi.” Clint hits the light and darkness settles around the room.

“Hi.” Phil's voice is soft.

“Hey.”

“I'm not quite sure why I called, to be honest.” He sounds embarrassed.

Clint slides down and turns onto this side. He places the phone down next to him and puts Phil on  
speaker. “You don't need to have a reason.”

“You don't need to have a reason, either, you know.”

“Okay.” Clint should have known that Phil would figure this out.

“I mean, you made me dinner and asked me to watch an eagle documentary just because I had a bad day. The least I can do is talk to you on the phone.”

Phil's words might border on teasing, but his voice is all warmth and comfort. Clint closes his eyes. “It was good to see you today.” 

“It was.” Phil pauses. “It was also good to stay over on Saturday.”

Clint draws up his knees and pretends he isn't curling around his phone. “Yeah?”

“Hmm.” There's a rustling of fabric on the other end of the line and Clint wonders if Phil is in bed as well. “It was nice.”

Clint wants to say so many things in response to that—how wonderful it was to find Phil tucked close to him when he woke up, how much he appreciated that Phil hadn't been in any rush to get up and had dozed with Clint for a while, all of their limbs entangled in a sleepy heap. “I miss you,” he whispers.

Phil's breath hitches. “Me too.”

“Phil...”

“What?”

Clint wonders if he should reveal so much, but then he remembers that holding back this afternoon had been the wrong decision. “I wanted to kiss you. When we were standing in front of my building.”

“Why didn't you? I wanted you to.”

Clint kicks himself again for not giving in to his instinct. “I don't know. I wasn't sure—”

“You can always kiss me,” Phil cuts in, urgent but hushed. “I'll make it very clear if I don't want you to.”

Possibilities rush through Clint's mind at being issued that blanket permission. “God, why aren't you here right now?”

Phil laughs. “Yeah...”

Hearing that doesn't help with Clint's longing. “Are we being completely ridiculous?”

“Probably. Does it matter?”

Isn't that the question? Does it matter that they're rushing into something neither of them can predict or, apparently, control? He knows rationally that Nat is right, that he should hold back until he knows Phil better and has a sense of what kinds of demons he's wrestling with. But the thing is, Clint has rarely been rational when it comes to his relationships, and that has left him out in the cold more than once. He trusts Phil, though. He trusts him more than he should at this point.

“No,” he finally says. “It doesn't.”

“I agree,” Phil answers without hesitation.

That puts a ridiculous smile on Clint's face.

“I should let you go,” Phil says.

“Can you—can you stay on the line just a little longer? We don't have to talk.”

“Okay.” There's more rustling on the other end and then a contented sigh.

Clint tugs the blanket over his shoulder. He can hear Phil's quiet breaths on the other end of the line and it's almost as if he's right next to him. It's the last thought Clint has before falling asleep.

**

On Saturday morning, Clint decides to swing by Murray's at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 12th on the way to the park. He has to walk across town anyway to catch the C, and he doesn't mind going a few blocks out of his way for some excellent bagels. Sure, he could also go uptown from Union Square, but that means either changing trains or walking across the entire park, neither of which appeal to Clint.

Despite the early hour, Murray's is busy. Clint gets in line and realizes that he has no idea what kinds of bagels Phil likes. Or if he likes bagels at all. What if he doesn't? Clint has a moment of panic, then tells himself to stop acting like a nervous sixteen-year old on a first date. Even if Phil doesn't like or eat bagels, he'll probably appreciate the gesture. He settles on a variety—plain, cinnamon raisin, and everything—and some plain cream cheese on the side. That seems pretty safe. And coffee, of course. Murray's makes surprisingly good coffee for not being a coffee shop. Happy with his choices, Clint waits for his turn. Naturally, the woman in front of him puts in an elaborate order that involves precise instructions for everything, including scooping out the whole wheat bagel before adding whitefish to it, but leaving the everything bagel (also with whitefish) intact, and could she please have two sides of strawberry cream cheese in addition to two sesame bagels and—Clint tunes her out and texts Phil about being late because there is no way that this order won't involve at least one mix-up.

Phil texts back right away. _Will be late, too. Should have checked the service changes before leaving._

Ah, MTA, always reliably screwing up the subway on the weekend. _Good luck!_

Clint decides to see if there are any delays on the uptown West side trains, but they all seem to be running according to schedule. When it's finally his turn, he asks for his bagels and coffee, and the sales guy seems relieved at having a straightforward order for once. Clint is out the door less than five minutes later, stuffing the paper bag with bagels and cream cheese into his bag, which also hold his binoculars and birding guide. He balances the tray with two coffees in one hand and fumbles for his Metrocard. Of course he gets the “please swipe your card again at this turnstile” message like every other time he tries to get on the subway. Fortunately, the rest of the ride uptown passes without incident.

Clint spots Phil at the West 81th Street entrance to the park from across the street. Phil is engrossed in his phone, which allows Clint to look as much as he wants. And oh, he wants, very much, because Phil's wearing dark jeans and a dark blue V-neck T-shirt and a fucking leather jacket. Plus the glasses, of course. It's not fair, and Clint wonders if he should have put a little more effort into his outfit. At least he isn't wearing his fleece jacket; he settled on a long-sleeved T-shirt that just happens to show off his arms.

“Hi,” Clint says when he steps in front of Phil.

Phil squints up at him as his eyes dart between Clint's face and the tray with paper cups. “You brought coffee,” he says with delight.

“And bagels,” Clint confirms.

“Thank you.” Phil leans forward and kisses Clint. He's casual about it, much like when he kissed Clint last Sunday, as if they've shared plenty of kisses before. Which they haven't, and that's really starting to bother Clint.

“Let's go.” Clint takes Phil's hand and leads them into the park, a plan forming in his mind. There's no way he can focus on birds before they explore this kissing thing in more depth. Clint remembers a set of recently restored paths close to this entrance that people often walk past in favor of attractions farther into the park. “Um, I hope you don't mind a little detour.”

“To see what?” Phil asks, allowing himself to be dragged along.

“Um.” Clint wonders how to phrase “so I can get my hands on you and your tongue in my mouth” in a less direct way. “You'll see.”

They turn off the main paved walkway and take a dirt path sprinkled with wood chips up a short hill. There's a cluster of trees near the top, and Clint walks them into the center.

Phil looks around. “Is there anything in particular I should be paying attention to?”

Clint sets down his bag and the coffee tray. “Me?”

Phil looks confused for a moment. Then it clicks for him because he steps closer. “I see.” His hands settle on Clint's hips. 

“Have been thinking about this all week,” Clint whispers and leans in. Phil's lips are soft and pliant and perfect for about five seconds before his glasses dig into Clint's cheek. “Ow.”

Phil takes his glasses off and tucks them into his jacket. “Yeah, that takes some figuring out. Later.”

“Later's good,” Clint mumbles.

It's still a little odd at first because they're both too eager. Clint slows them down to a brush of lips and a tease of tongue until Phil whines. The frustrated sounds make Clint smile, and he gathers Phil closer. He runs a hand up Phil's side and over his chest, soft and worn cotton only a thin barrier to warm skin. Phil sucks in a breath when Clint's fingertips trace along the v of his T-shirt, and he uses a gentle nudge against Clint's cheek to bring their lips together again. Things slot into place, and they fall into a give-and-take that leaves Clint breathless and wanting. He backs Phil into a tree and shifts more of his weight against him, which Phil encourages with a sharp tug. Their hips align enough to let Clint know that Phil is hard, and Clint can't help it, he has to feel—he kneads his palm over Phil's cock. If they weren't in public, Clint would have his hand down Phil's jeans. 

“God, don't—” Phil says, but presses closer.

Clint nuzzles Phil's neck, pleased with the shiver that brings forth. “I'll stop if you tell me to.”

Phil doesn't say anything else for the next five minutes. Rather, he draws them together for a messy kiss, his tongue pushing into Clint's mouth again and again. Phil's thigh has found its way between Clint's legs, and it feels so good, a tense line of muscle pressing up against him. It's not going to take much longer, maybe two minutes, and Clint knows that he should put a stop to this, but he can't. He's been thinking about this the whole week, and it's even better than he's imagined because Phil is nearly shaking against him, all semblance of control gone.

“Need to stop,” Phil murmurs. His hand pushes half-heartedly against Clint's chest.

“Yeah.” Clint continues to suck at the skin right below Phil's collar anyway.

“Okay, we really, god, we need to—” He pushes Clint away with more force. “I'm not coming in my pants, and I'm about half a minute away from that.”

Clint's about that close as well and he steps back. He studies the ground underneath his boots because if he looks at Phil, he's not going to be able to keep his hands off him.

Phil laughs. “I can't even remember the last time I did something like this.”

Clint sneaks a glance at him and has to ball his hands into fists so he doesn't reach for Phil again. “Uhuh.” It's all he's capable of at the moment, his brain still too busy sorting through entirely inappropriate but most desirable scenarios involving Phil's hands, tongue, and cock.

“So, I read it's spring migration now. For birds, I mean.”

Clint risks another furtive look. “You read up on birds?”

“I might have googled a thing or two.” Phil shrugs.

Phil googling birds shouldn't be attractive, but dammit, it is. Clint's dates usually don't even listen long enough to understand what his job is, let alone bother googling spring migration patterns. Okay, focus. Birds. “Well, Google was right. We're in the middle of birds moving north after they spent the winter somewhere south. Central Park is like a huge rest stop, basically. Birders specifically travel to the city to see birds this month.” Talking about this helps; Clint can actually look at Phil without wanting to press him against a tree again. Well, he still wants that, but the urge isn't quite as immediate.

“Huh, I didn't know people would actually travel just to see birds.” Phil bends down to pick up the coffee tray. 

“Oh yeah, it's a big thing actually. There are famous birding locations all over the country. Including the Ramble, which is where we're going.” Clint hoists his bag up over his head and lets it settle comfortably across his body.

Phil holds out a hand to him. “Lead the way.”

Clint slides his hand into Phil's with a smile.

**

“I still don't see it,” Phil says, frustration evident in his voice. He lowers the binoculars.

“Let's try this.” Clint steps behind him. They're almost the same height—Phil maybe has an inch on him—so their lines of sight should match up. Clint's been trying to get Phil to spot the Philadelphia Vireo that's perching near the top of a sycamore. “Follow the trunk almost all the way up.” He waits until Phil raises the binoculars and tracks the trunk. “Okay now, there's a branch that's pretty light on foliage to your left.” Phil picks a branch beneath the one that the bird's on. “No, that's—I'll use my hand to direct you, okay?” Clint asks before curling his hand around Phil's upper arm. He nudges it upward until Phil should be watching the right branch, at least.

“How can you even see the bird without binoculars?”

“Um, I have good eyesight.” He steers Phil farther to the left.

“I'd say spectacular—oh! There it is.” 

Clint lowers his hand and rests it on Phil's hip because, well, it is right there, and Phil doesn't object. “Mostly gray, yellow chest?”

“Yes. And it's not like there is another bird around there.”

Clint doesn't point out that there are four other birds—a Tufted Titmouse, a Tennessee Warbler, and two sparrows—in the same tree top. “I'm glad you found it. It's pretty rare around here, and it tries to stay out of sight. A lot of people confuse it with the Warbling Vireo, but that one has yellow on its sides, not the chest. And their song is different, too. More musical than this one.”

“This one sounds more like it's trying to whistle but can't quite get the entire song out.”

“Yeah.” Clint smiles because that's a fairly accurate description. 

Phil lowers the binoculars and settles his glasses back on his nose. He leans back against Clint. “Thanks for making sure I find the bird. Vireo. Right?”

“Philadelphia Vireo, yeah.” Clint's mind is mostly trained on how nice Phil feels against him. They are alone, for now, but they have been passing a number of birders as they made their way into the thicket of the Ramble.

“Do you have a favorite bird?” Phil asks.

“Not really. I like the birds of prey on the bridges a lot. But I also like sparrows because they're fearless little bastards who will risk hopping between your feet in the hope of finding something to eat.” 

“I wouldn't have expected you to like sparrows because they're everywhere.” Phil steps away from Clint and starts walking.

“That's part of why I like them. They're resourceful and adapt to lots of different environments. Most people don't even notice.” Clint keeps his eyes on the trees. He can hear an insistent _tsip-tsip_ , but he can't see the warbler yet.

Phil's looking around as well. “What's the most unusual bird you've seen?”

“I don't know about unusual, but the most impressive bird I've seen is a bald eagle. That was back in Iowa. The farm next to—well, next to where I lived at the time had a nest that a pair of eagles came back to year after year. I used to sneak onto the property to watch them, especially after the eaglets hatched.” Clint stops; the _tsip-tsip_ has gotten louder.

“I imagine seeing a bald eagle in real life is pretty intimidating,” Phil says in a low voice.

Clint nods. He's certain that they are standing in front of the right tree—there, halfway up. He leans close to Phil and points. Whispering, he explains, “Small bird, black and white stripes, bright orange throat. Don't think you need the binoculars. It's pretty close.”

Phil squints. “Yes! I see it. What's it called?”

“It's a Blackburnian Warbler. It's common around these parts during the summer.”

“I've never seen it before, and I've lived here for over twenty years now,” Phil says with awe.

Clint's pleased that Phil seems to enjoy their outing. “Well, now you know what you're looking for.”

Phil turns to him and smiles. “Yeah, I do.”

**

They settle on a [big boulder](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9532636979/sizes/l/in/photostream/) near the edge of the Ramble for breakfast. It's one of Clint's favorite places in the park because it's just above a small creek that a lot of birds frequent, but it also has a great view of the Lake and the tall buildings along Central Park South in the distance.

“This is a nice spot,” Phil observes half-way through his bagel. He picked cinnamon raisin, which is information that Clint files away for future reference.

“Hmm.” Clint isn't really in the mood for a conversation. It's still quiet in the park, the air filled with chirps and the occasional _tock-tock-tock_ from a woodpecker. Clint wants to soak it all up, with Phil a steady presence at his side.

Phil falls silent and shifts closer. When Phil is done with his bagel, his arm comes around Clint—hesitant at first, but then more firmly once it's clear that the gesture is welcome. It's more than welcome, really. Phil seems generous with affection, and it seems to come easy for him, which isn't always the case for Clint, especially early on in a relationship. Which he and Phil are definitely not in. Yet.

“Is that a cardinal?” Phil asks quietly and gestures to a low branch on the opposite side of the creek. 

Clint smiles. “No. It's a Summer Tanager, but they're easy to confuse considering that they're both bright red. Well, the males, anyway. A cardinal has that little crest thing going on.” Clint curls his finger in an approximation of it, and then feels silly for doing so, but Phil regards him with fondness. “Uhh, anyway. Cardinals are bigger, too, and they have a different beak. Their callnote is easy to identify, it's kind of a tchip-tchip-tchip.” Clint feels really silly now that he's imitating a Cardinal's call.

Phil's face lights up. “I've heard that before. I didn't realize that was a Cardinal.”

“When you hear it, you can probably find it, especially once it's moving. Considering it's bright red and all. The Tanager has more of a crackling call, and it's longer. I'm surprised to see this one here—they usually stick to further southeast. Well, this kind. There's one that is red with black wings that's more common in our area.” Clint shuts up before he can get caught up in different mating and nesting behaviors. There's only so much bird nerdery the average non-birder can endure even if they seem interested.

Phil nods along. “So two unusual birds in one morning. I'd say that's definitely a success.”

“It's certainly not bad for a first birding experience,” Clint agrees.

Phil's eyes drop to Clint's mouth and his hand slides up to Clint's nape before he moves in for a kiss. Unlike earlier, there's no urgency behind it; it's soft and slow, a moment of connection. “Couldn't help myself,” Phil murmurs.

“I'm not complaining.” It comes out a little hoarse because Phil's thumb is brushing along the side of his neck, and it's so damn intimate that Clint wants to curl into Phil to hide away from the way his heart is jack-rabbiting in his chest. “We should—there is—I read that someone saw a Solitary Sandpiper near the boathouse yesterday if you want to see.”

Phil pulls back his hand and moves to stand up. “Sure.”

Clint follows suit. He'd much rather sit with Phil a while longer, but he's already falling too hard too fast. Looking at more birds is the safer alternative.

**

They manage to find the Sandpiper and they wind down the birding after that. Clint's glad that Phil seems to have no interest in ending their date yet. He leads them to a pair of benches on the top of a small hill that [overlooks the Lake](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9541238964/sizes/l/) but is away from the majority of the foot traffic. Even though it's not ten a.m. yet, there are already a number of people out in rowboats, and there's a steady stream of joggers as well as people with dogs and children making their way along the path that circles the Lake. 

Phil has just finished a story about how a parakeet almost ruined four months of intense investigations when a familiar figure comes into Clint's view. He smiles at the sight of Steve herding a group of small children to the foot of the hill while carrying a number of tiny easels and a large backpack. “That's a friend of mine,” Clint says while waving in Steve's direction. “Do you mind if we say hello?”

Phil stands. “Not at all.”

“Steve!” Clint calls out as they approach the group. The children seem to be familiar with setting up the easels and gathering paint supplies from the backpack.

Steve looks up from where he's adjusting a canvas and sends a bright smile in Clint's direction. “Hey! Are you on your way to the Ramble?”

“Just came from there, actually.” Clint turns to Phil, who is staring at Steve, which is a little odd, but then Steve is exceptionally attractive, especially in the tight white T-shirt he's wearing. “Steve, this is Phil, my, um, well, we went birding together. Phil, this is—”

“Steve Rogers,” Phil cuts in, sounding awed.

“You know Steve?”

Phil shakes Steve's hand, not taking his eyes off him. “Well, not personally, of course, until now, but I've heard of—Clint, this is _Steve Rogers_.” He's saying that in a tone that suggests that surely Clint should know him and not just as a friend.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve mumbles. He seems taken aback by the attention.

“Um, I seem to be missing something important here,” Clint says.

“Well...” Steve begins, awkwardly rubbing his neck.

Phil turns to Clint and explains in a hushed voice, “Captain Steve Rogers? The man who single-handedly saved his men from an ambush in Iraq in 2004? You know, 'Captain America'?”

“Okay,” Steve cuts in. “Let's not rehash that embarrassing nickname again.”

“I agree that that went a little far in terms of cable news enthusiasm,” Phil responds, still all earnest admiration. “But what you did was truly heroic.”

Steve blushes. Clint has no idea what is going on. “Steve?”

“I, um, I may have contributed to a rescue mission when I was serving overseas.”

Clint didn't even know that Steve was in the military. But then he doesn't make a point of asking people to elaborate on their pasts considering that he isn't so keen on discussing his own life. As far as he's concerned, Steve teaches art classes for children and is as big a birding nerd as Clint is. Apparently, that's not all there is to know about him. 

“It's not a big deal. I did what anyone else would have done.”

Phil looks like he wants to object to that, but settles on, “It is an honor to meet you.”

Steve acknowledges that with a hesitant nod. “So, Clint took you birding?”

“Yes,” Phil says. “We even saw some unusual birds. A Philadelphia Vireo and a Summer Tanager.”

Steve turns to Clint. “Are you going to post an RBA to ebirds? Or I can add it to today's Audubon RBA update. But it's really your find, Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye?” Phil asks.”RBA?”

Now it's Clint's turn to feel his cheeks heat. “Uhh, that's my, um, username on the New York birding forum. And RBA stands for Rare Bird Alert.”

“Clint's ability to spot unusual birds is legendary,” Steve adds.

“I believe that in a heartbeat,” Phil says sincerely.

Clint almost launches into an explanation of how 'legendary' is really an exaggeration—even though he is pretty good at locating birds—but it's nice to have Phil's attention back. “I'll send a text out to NYBirds. That's probably more useful to people who are already out and about.”

“Good idea,” Steve affirms. He quickly scans his charges, and seems satisfied that most kids have started to sketch the view.

“How are things for you?” Clint asks. He hasn't seen Steve in a few weeks.

“Good. Well, aside from that whole thing with Stark.” He sighs.

“He's still dragging his feet about the nest?” Turning to Phil, Clint explains, “There's a falcon nest on Stark Tower, and Stark wants it gone, but these particular falcons might be endangered.”

A frown of distinct disapproval spreads on Steve's face. “Exactly, which is what I've told Stark a hundred times, but then he goes on about sensitive experimental technology and major breakthroughs and some other mumbo-jumbo that no one without an advanced degree in engineering can follow, and the meeting ends without a solution.”

Clint nods in sympathy. He's experienced Stark a few times at benefits for the park and found him charming enough, but bordering on exhausting. “Have you discussed relocating the nest? I'm happy to help out.”

“We have another meeting about that next Tuesday. I'll let you know how it goes.”

Clint has his own opinions on why Steve and Stark cannot see eye-to-eye on this issue, and it has nothing to do with falcons and everything to do with their own personal mating dance. But that's something they have to work out for themselves. “Make sure you point out that we can only relocate the nest before hatching starts.”

“I'll do my best—oh, no. Thomas! Be careful with—”

A high-pitched shriek indicates that Thomas wasn't careful enough, and a girl's white dress is now splattered with dark blue paint. Clint wonders who would dress their kid in a white dress for a painting lesson.

“Sorry, gotta take care of that,” Steve says as he jogs over to where Thomas is staring at the empty paint tube and the girl is trying to rub the paint off her dress, making it worse.

Clint's “Good to see you” mingles with Phil's “Nice to meet you.”

They start walking again. Clint picks a path that will lead them to the east side of the park, which is more convenient for Phil in terms of getting home on the subway.

“I hope I didn't make Steve uncomfortable,” Phil says. “I've admired him for a long time, and I never imagined that I'd have a chance to meet him. I didn't even know he lived in the city. He sort of disappeared after the media frenzy died down.”

Clint still finds it difficult to reconcile the idea of his friend with someone the media dubbed “Captain America.” No wonder Steve went underground. “Steve's easygoing, so as long as you dial down the admiration next time, I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“Yeah, I think I got that out of my system now,” Phil says with a laugh.

“So I don't have to worry about competition?” Clint asks, trying for joking, but not quite managing it.

Phil pointedly takes Clint's hand. “No. There's something very different about witnessing heroic deeds from afar and seeing them up close.”

It takes Clint a moment to catch on. “That's not—that's really not the same thing.”

Phil stops and looks at Clint. “Maybe not. But you still decided to intervene in a situation that other people may have walked away from.”

The memories from the bridge slam back into Clint's mind. Having gotten to know Phil better over the past few weeks makes thinking back on that day much more painful than the moment when he reached out to a stranger. He looks down at their entwined hands. “Can we not—it's been such a nice day, and can we just enjoy that?”

Phil nods. “Want to keep walking for a little while longer?”

Clint grasps Phil's fingers a little tighter. “Yeah. I'd like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a map of the section of Central Park that Phil and Clint visit [here](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9927338166/). Please hover over the image to see identification of particular spots!


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” Phil asks when they talk on the phone Thursday night. Since Phil called Clint the previous Wednesday, they've gotten into the habit of exchanging at least a few words every night. 

“No. Do you want to do something?” Clint finds it charming that Phil asks about the weekend as if it isn't obvious already that they will meet up. Or at least it's a no-brainer to Clint that they'll see each other. 

“I was thinking we could go to the Met. It's one of my favorite places in the city, and since you showed me the Ramble, I wanted to show you a place I like.”

Clint isn't big on museums, but it's probably fun to go with Phil. “Sure.”

There's a brief pause, and then Phil says, “That doesn't sound too enthusiastic. We don't have to.”

“No, I do want to go, it's just that I don't really know much about art.” 'Nothing' would probably be the more accurate description.

“I don't really know much, either, but the Met is more than just paintings. They have artifacts from all over the world, and the building itself is worth seeing. I've been there so many times and I still sometimes turn a corner and find something I've never seen before. Have you been to the Met before?”

Clint is fairly certain that it's one of the museums that Nat has dragged him to over the years. “Yeah, maybe once or twice.”

“Okay, well, I promise it won't be boring.”

Clint smiles at Phil's enthusiasm. “You'll be there, so obviously it won't be boring.” The words slip out before he can hold them back. When Phil doesn't say anything in return, Clint asks, “You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry, you just caught me off-guard. I'm—I'm glad you think so.”

The uncertain answer makes Clint wonder if other people have called Phil boring before, which doesn't make any sense because Phil is kind and generous and smart and badass at his job as far as Clint can tell. But he doesn't want to put him further on the spot. “What day do you want to go? Saturday or Sunday?”

“Let's go on Saturday. The Met is open until nine that evening and it's usually a lot less crowded than earlier in the day.”

'Less crowded' are magical words to Clint's ears. “So, should we meet there at 6:30? Unless that's not enough time...”

“No, that's good. That's plenty of time.” With a sigh, Phil adds, “I should go. It's getting late.”

Clint pulls his phone away from his ear to glance at the time. It's almost midnight. “Me too.” Despite both of them professing that they need to end the conversation, neither of them does. It's pathetic and wonderful. Clint laughs. “Okay, seriously, hanging up now. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Clint holds on to the warmth in Phil's voice as he drifts off to sleep.

**

On Saturday evening, Phil is waiting for him at the top of the broad set of stairs that leads up to the entrance of the Met. He doesn't take his eyes off Clint, which is flattering and also exactly what Clint was aiming for when he got dressed. He's in jeans that are tight in all the right places and his Pride '05 T-shirt, which is not only soft, but also threadbare.

Phil pulls Clint close as soon as he's in reach and says, “You look good enough to eat.”

Clint grins and steals a kiss from Phil. “I know.” He isn't going to pretend that he's unaware of how he looks in these clothes; besides, he has plans for later that involve a bed and far fewer clothes than either of them are wearing right now.

Phil steers them inside. The [entrance hall](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9580716260/sizes/l/) is large and filled with the murmur of voices that echoes through the space. Conversations in half a dozen languages float past Clint as they make their way to one of the ticket counters to the right.

“First rule of the Met,” Phil says as they get in line. “Never pay full price. It might say twenty-five bucks—”

Clint nearly chokes.

“Exactly. But twenty-five is the suggested fee. You can pay whatever you want.”

“Good to know,” Clint says. He isn't sure if he wants to pay that much for a bunch of art he isn't going to understand.

When they get to the front of the line, Phil slides a ten across the counter and requests two tickets. “My treat.”

“I can pay,” Clint retorts. It's automatic; a response borne out of a time when he didn't have a lot of money and people could tell.

Phil picks up the two metal tags, dark green and imprinted with an elaborate white M. “I know.” He steps to the side to make way for the people behind him. “But I invited you here and I want to share this with you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Clint picks up one of the tags and clips it onto the collar of his shirt. Phil does the same.

“Where do you want to start?” Phil asks.

“I have no idea what kinds of art they have here.” It's been years since Clint has been here and his memories are hazy. “Do you want to show me your favorite things?”

Phil smiles. “I'd love to. Why don't we start here.” He gestures to their right. “Ancient Egypt.”

Clint can see a light stone wall right next to the entrance, which looks interesting enough. “Sure.”

The very first thing they see after stepping into the Egyptian galleries is the reconstruction of a tomb—The Tomb of Perneb, the sign says. Clint was expecting to be kept at a respectful distance, but they can actually walk inside. [The chamber](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577932599/sizes/l/in/photostream/) is rather small, only large enough for four people at a time. The walls are behind glass and covered in paintings of people and lots of hieroglyphics. It's hard to believe that they're looking at something that is thousands of years old.

“That was pretty cool,” Clint observes as they step back into the gallery.

“Oh yeah?” Phil smiles. “There's more.”

This part of the museum is still crowded even though it's getting late. Clint keeps close to Phil's side and he doesn't mind when Phil takes his hand because it leaves him to look at what's on display without having to pay attention to where they are going. They're moving through rooms filled with statues and mummies, and they pass through a long gallery with stone fragments mounted on the wall, all of which are painted in bright colors, depicting scenes of everyday life. Even though these fragments have been restored, Clint still marvels at how vivid the colors remain after all this time.

“This way,” Phil says and turns left. They move into a [huge room](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577933945/sizes/l/in/photostream/), half of which is a sloping window that looks out over Central Park. In the middle is a full-size ruin.

“Holy shit.” Clint stares. There's an entire temple set up across a broad fake moat. “Is that real?”

Phil looks pleased. “Yeah. Well, much of it. It's the Temple of Dendur.”

Once again, it's possible to walk up right to the temple. As they get closer, Clint can make out the hieroglyphics that cover the outer walls. They continue on the inside along the walls of the interior chamber. It's like stepping into a time machine. “How is this even here?” Clint wonders out loud because it fucks with his mind a little that he's looking at stones from Egypt that are over two thousand years old while standing in the middle of New York City.

“Um, I think it was a gift from the Egyptian government.” 

“Huh.” 

“I guess that's better than simply taking it, which is what happened to lots of other artifacts from Egypt. But there's probably more to the story than the signs here let on,” Phil muses.

Clint nods. He wonders if the carvings on the wall tell a story, and if the people looking at it at the time the temple was built immediately understood what they meant.

When they leave the temple, Phil gestures to an open doorway to their right. It says “The American Wing” above it.

“That's my favorite part of the museum,” Phil explains as they walk toward it. “I know lots of people come here to see the Egyptian art or the Impressionist paintings, but the American art has always been my favorite.”

They walk past a small gift shop and walk through a set of glass doors. The room beyond is filled with elegant wooden furniture—chairs, desks, sidetables and other things Clint can't begin to name. He follows Phil until [the view](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9580721530/sizes/l/in/photostream/) to the left makes him stop. A few marble stairs lead into more rooms with old furniture, but Clint can see straight beyond into a courtyard. The far doorway perfectly frames a golden statue of an archer. 

“Can we...?” Clint points into the direction of the statue.

“Sure.”

[The courtyard](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577936481/sizes/l/in/photostream/) is large and airy. Early evening light floods through the glass ceiling and illuminates the statues scattered around the space. The golden female archer stands on top of a stone pillar. She has drawn back the bowstring and nocked an arrow, taking aim. It's an arresting sight.

“Diana,” Phil reads off the sign. “By Augustus Saint-Gauden, 1892.”

Clint nods and looks around some more. There's a cafe off to one side, and a number of beautiful stained glass windows.

“One of my other favorite things in the museum is right across the courtyard, actually.” Phil starts walking.

They reach a set of stairs that lead up to the balconies encircling the courtyard. The banisters are made out of intricate iron. They stop on a [small landing](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577937295/sizes/l/in/photostream/) half-way up the first set of stairs. Clint leans closer and traces some of the iron shapes with his fingers. “I bet most people walk straight past these.”

“Probably, and there's definitely more exciting art to see, but I've always liked these stairs. I might be biased because these banisters are from Chicago.” Phil shrugs.

“They're beautiful.” Clint likes that he can actually touch them; so many things in museums are always kept at a distance. He understands why, of course, but it's nice to feel the shape of the delicate metal instead of merely looking at it.

They walk all the way up to the second-floor balcony and loop back into the American wing. They pass lots of portraits of people who were probably very important and finally stop in front of a massive painting that takes up nearly an entire wall. 

Phil tilts his head up to take in the large canvas. “I guess if you see one painting in this section, it's this one: _[Washington Crossing the Delaware](http://metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/11417)_.”

Clint is unimpressed. Washington looks a little pompous standing at the front of a small boat, what with the heroic posture and billowing coat. Besides, while he's looking off to points unknown, a number of people are busy navigating a river full of ice. “Uhh, yeah, I guess it's impressive.”

“It's maybe a little much,” Phil agrees. “In any case, it's one of the Met's must-see pieces of art.”

“Not one of your favorites, though?” 

“Not really,” Phil concedes. “It's a little too—” He waves his hand. 

“Yeah, exactly.” A painting in the adjacent gallery catches Clint's eye. “What's this?” He starts walking, and Phil follows.

They stop in front of [a painting](http://metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/11122) depicting a black man in small boat in rough seas. The waves have precariously tilted the boat toward the two large sharks roaming in the water, but the man seems unconcerned.

“Oh, Winslow Homer,” Phil says. “I like his paintings.”

Clint often finds most art boring because he can't relate to what he's looking at, but this painting intrigues him because the man seems so unconcerned with the dangerous situation he's in. Upon a closer look, he can see that the boat's mast is broken; only a stump is left of it, and the sail hangs off the far side of the boat. It seems like a hopeless situation overall. Clint wonders what Homer meant to say with it; the title, _The Gulf Stream_ , doesn't provide any hints.

“I like this one,” he tells Phil. 

Phil nods in acknowledgment but doesn't press Clint about why he likes this painting or which aspets of it he likes. Clint appreciates that. He can't really say why he feels drawn to it.

They meander through more of the American Wing, but nothing catches Clint's attention like _The Gulf Stream_ did. Eventually, Phil leads them to a set of doors marked with Art of Japan. They step through the doors and find themselves in a very different space—the ceilings are much lower, the light is dim, and it's very quiet. Clint finds it much more inviting than the bright, open galleries they have just wandered through.

A sign next to the door says _Birds in the Art of Japan_. It seems to be a special exhibition, and Clint is intrigued. Phil lets him take the lead and patiently waits as Clint slowly makes his way along the glass cases holding paintings and screens. Most of the birds are unfamiliar to Clint, but he appreciates the detail with which the artists have depicted them. He likes the ink drawings of birds in flight best—there's a [set of four paintings](http://metmuseum.org/exhibitions/view?exhibitionId=%7B6651208C-015B-414A-940B-B57D76631780%7D&oid=54605&pg=2&rpp=20&pos=25&ft=*), all quite large, of an eagle attacking various prey. The eagle looks fierce, and its body and feathers are drawn with precision and care.

It occurs to Clint that they have been in this gallery a good twenty minutes and haven't said a word to each other. It's a comfortable silence. Clint reaches for Phil's hand. Phil's thumb brushes across the back of his hand, and that's communication enough. Once they have seen everything in the small set of rooms, they sit down in front of a [small fountain](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577942861/sizes/l/in/photostream/)—a square block of rock with water continuously bubbling up through its center. It's a soothing sound.

“Have you traveled much?” Phil asks.

“Not really. I've been to Florida once, with Nat, for spring break of sorts even though we weren't in college.”

“Was it everything that spring break is supposed to be?”

There had been a lot of sex and alcohol. “Probably. The beach was nice.” Clint glances at Phil. “I like to go upstate a few times a year, just to get away from the city. Just, you know, hiking, with a tent. Nothing fancy.”

Phil looks back at him, steady and sure. “That sounds nice. The city certainly gets a little much from time to time.”

“Yeah.” It's reassuring that Phil gets why Clint needs to leave sometimes. He loves the city and he can't imagine living anywhere else, but there are moments when he needs to be truly alone, without the crowds that are so difficult to avoid here. “What about you? Have you seen much of the world?”

“I did the whole traveling-around-Europe thing in college. I'd like to go back there one day and stay in one place for more than a day and a half at a time.”

“I guess Europe's pretty nice.” Traveling is one of those topics that can throw Clint because it's never been part of his life. He overhears people talking about the places they've been to or intend to go, and it always makes Clint feel like the dumb kid from Iowa, even though he hasn't been that in twenty years.

“It is. The most memorable experience was certainly meeting Thor.” Phil laughs.

“Thor?”

“Yes. I met him in Norway. Or maybe Sweden? I don't remember. He was just as you may expect—tall, blond, blue eyes. He had a rather odd way of expressing himself even though he was fluent in English, and he had the craziest stories. Of course he could drink everyone under the table, too.”

“Did you hook up?”

Phil looks surprised at the question. “No. He probably would have been up for it because he seemed so interested in everything and everyone, but...no. That's not—I'm not really into that kind of thing.”

“Ah, okay.” Clint doesn't volunteer that he has casual sex all the time. Well, not at the moment because of Phil, obviously. Hopefully Phil doesn't have an issue with the way Clint handles his sex life. But he doesn't want to think about that until he has to. “Want to show me something else? I think we've seen everything in here.”

Phil pulls out his phone and looks at the time. “Let's go to the roof.” 

“There's a roof? I mean, obviously there's a roof, but I didn't know you could go there.”

Phil smiles. “You can. They use it as an outdoor exhibition space.”

On the way out of the Japanese galleries, they pass one of the strangest things Clint has seen in a while: a [life-size deer](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9580730422/sizes/l/in/photostream/) that seems to be made out of glass baubles. The sign reveals that it's an actual taxidermied deer— _what the fuck_ —that is encased in glass. Clint takes a picture of it because he has to show Nat. Phil just shakes his head.

They cut through the European painting galleries on the way to the elevator and then climb another set of stairs from the fourth floor. The roof is packed with people. After the quiet and nearly empty galleries of Japanese art, so many people are a shock to Clint's system. He almost wants to turn around.

“This way.” Phil's hand rests on Clint's back and he guides him to a free corner. Or rather, relatively free corner, as they have to squeeze past a group of twenty-something socialites who are clearly there to have a drink, not to look at art. 

Clint steps right upto the low stone wall that runs around the roof and he feels Phil at his back. He leans against him and lets Phil be a barrier between himself and the crowd. Only then does he notice that they're facing west and the sun is setting. “Did you time this?”

Phil's hands settle on his hips. “Maybe.”

Clint ducks his head and smiles. Watching the sunset is such a cliché, and Clint usually thinks these kinds of romantic gestures are overrated and bordering on stupid, but he likes being here with Phil to see [the sun dip behind](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9580736276/sizes/l/in/photostream/) the buildings along Central Park West. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“You're welcome.”

They watch as the sky turns into stripes of orange, red, and blue. The few clouds in the sky are edged in gold. Clint thinks he should watch the sunset more often. “Thanks for bringing me here.” He hopes Phil understands that he means the entire museum, not just the roof.

Phil slides his arms around Clint's waist. “I'm glad you're having a good time.”

Clint lets his eyes close. As much as he likes the view, he wants no distractions from the way Phil feels all around him—the rise and fall of his chest against Clint's back, the warmth of his palms, the hint of stubble where his cheek rests against the side of Clint's face.

“There are some more things we could look at,” Phil suggests.

“Yes.” Clint wants to know about every single thing Phil likes in this museum.

They loop back through the European galleries, and Clint catches a few paintings out of the corner of his eye, swirls of blue and green, with a gaggle of tourists in front of them. Clint doesn't mind walking right past. He and Phil are walking along a corridor that slopes downward when Clint looks to the right and sees another courtyard.

“Wait,” he calls out to Phil and walks down the marble steps onto [a grand patio](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577950559/sizes/l/in/photostream/) that winds along two of the four walls in the large hall. The sign tells Clint that he's standing on stones from the castle of Velez Blanco, built in Spain in the 1500s. He trails his hand along a marble column and wonders who else has touched the stone in its long history.

“You know, I don't think I've ever been in here,” Phil says from behind him. 

“I guess it's one of those hidden corners,” Clint says. He leans on the broad patio railing and looks down at the large sculptures in the center of the courtyard.

Phil nods and studies him. “I was going to show you some photography, but I think I'd rather show you something else.”

“And what would that be?” Clint asks.

“You'll find out,” Phil says with a smile.

It turns out that whatever Phil wants Clint to see is in the Islamic Art Galleries. They wander through a few rooms with sculptures and stone fragments before reaching a much brighter space. They pass beneath intricately carved arches and come to a halt in front of a small [stone fountain](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577951987/sizes/l/in/photostream/) that faces an ornate dark wooden door and colorful tiles. 

“This gallery has a few model rooms and objects from everyday life,” Phil says. “I thought you'd probably enjoy this more than photographs.”

Clint bends down to take a closer look at the tiles. The pattern looks like sunbursts that radiate outward. “I do like this. It's—I don't know, it's like looking back into history and really being able to see what life was like.” It means a lot to Clint that Phil changed his plans so that they could check out a few things Clint would enjoy. These tiles are probably nothing too famous, but to Clint they are more significant than that painting all those tourists were gawping at.

“My favorite part of these galleries is just over there,” Phil says, gesturing to a doorway straight ahead.

Clint follows. When they step into the first room in this new section, the light dims, and dims yet again when they turn right into the second room. It's tucked away, not immediately obvious from the main part of the gallery.

“Look up,” Phil whispers.

Clint tilts his head back and sees a [wooden ceiling](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9577954205/sizes/l/in/photostream/) made out of hundreds of interlocking carved wooden stars. They are nestled within in each other, making it hard to discern where they begin and end. Clint looks and looks until he feels dizzy.

Phil is smiling at him when their eyes meet. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

Clint nods. Only now does he notice the carpets that are hung on the walls and the large runner that takes up the entire length of the room. They are probably what's noteworthy in here, but they are nowhere near as compelling as the ceiling. Clint hangs back as Phil wanders around the room. Keeping his eyes on Phil, Clint retreats into a corner and leans against the wall. There's a large lit display case next to him, but otherwise, this corner is dark and invisible from the two entrances to the room. He calls out Phil's name and gestures at him to come closer.

“What?” Phil asks when he reaches Clint.

Clint slides his hand up Phil's sides and tugs.

“I don't think we should—”

Clint cuts him off with a kiss, which Phil briefly returns.

“This probably isn't the place,” Phil points out.

“There's hardly anyone in these galleries, and you can't see into this corner unless you fully step into the room. And no one's come in since we've been here.” Clint reclines against the wall. If that brings his hips closer to Phil's, well.

Phil shakes his head with a laugh, but settles his weight against Clint. “The things you make me do,” he mumbles.

It's Phil who initiates this kiss, who slips his tongue into Clint's mouth, and who winds his fingers into Clint's hair. It's all kinds of hot, and Clint wants more of this take-charge Phil. His arms come around Phil's shoulders, keeping him close. 

Phil has just done a thing with his tongue that sends a shudder through Clint's entire body when a loud throat-clearing cuts through the haze of lust that has settled in Clint's brain.

“Gentlemen,” a stern female voice comes from Clint's right. 

Phil pulls back. An adorable blush steals across his cheeks. Clint looks at the museum guard, who seems more amused than angry. Her barely suppressed grin makes Clint keep his arms around Phil.

“I realize these carpets are very...stimulating in their beauty,” the guard points out. “But this is still a public space.”

“Sorry,” Phil says. Clint refuses to apologize. The guard acknowledges Phil's apology with a nod and leaves.

Clint runs his thumb along Phil's cheek. “That's a good look on you.”

Phil groans and drops his head onto Clint's shoulder. “I'm so embarrassed.”

“But worth it, right?” Clint whispers.

“Yes,” Phil mumbles into his T-shirt.

“Want to get out of here?”

Phil lifts his head. “Yes. Definitely. Yes.”

Clint laughs, kisses Phil one more time, and takes his hand. He's pretty sure he remembers the way to the exit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the story finally earns its rating...and more things about Phil's past come to light.

Clint barely manages to kick the front door of his apartment shut behind them when Phil pushes him up against it, which is more than welcome because Clint has been hard since they got into the cab and if he doesn't get some pressure against his dick in the next five seconds, he's going to die. Phil obliges by crowding into him, shoving his thigh between Clint's legs.

They trade a few open-mouthed kisses before Clint breaks off and fumbles with the button and zipper on Phil's jeans. He gets them open just enough to shove a hand inside. Phil's cock feels good in his hand, warm and heavy, and he gives it a few rough strokes.

“Like this?” He wants to make this good for Phil.

“Yeah,” Phil breathes against his neck before he starts sucking on the skin right below Clint's ear.

Clint looks down, watches his hand slide along Phil's cock. When the first beads of wetness appear on the tip, Clint brushes his palm across it. He keeps the touch light; there are callouses on his hand and he doesn't know how sensitive Phil is, but the hitch of breath he gets in response is encouraging. He closes his palm more firmly around the head, rubbing in slow circles.

“Shit, Clint,” Phil whispers and seeks his mouth again.

Clint smiles into the kiss, maybe just a little satisfied with himself. There's absolutely no grace in this kiss, but it's good anyway. He wraps his arm around Phil's shoulder and urges him closer. Phil follows eagerly, and the pressure between Clint's legs becomes that much better. His palm is sticky by now, and he'd love to make Phil come like this, but—

“Want you to fuck me,” Clint murmurs.

It takes Phil a second to respond. “Yeah—that's—yeah.”

He moves away from Clint, and Clint extricates his hand, wiping it along his jeans. He drags his T-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. His jeans are next.

“Oh, I should've known.” Phil sounds amused and a little awed when Clint's lack of underwear becomes apparent. “Not that I mind,” he adds, unbuttoning his shirt.

Clint smirks and shrugs. Nat calls this pair his “fuck me” jeans, and she isn't entirely off the mark because if he goes commando under them, they show off all his assets in the best of ways. He kicks off his boots and manages to peel off his socks in a not entirely undignified way.

Phil is still not out of his shirt. “Fuck the buttons.” Clint impatiently tugs the shirt over Phil's head, which naturally leads to his arms getting stuck.

“Wait, you can't—“ comes Phil's muffled voice from inside the bunched cotton. Clint cracks up but doesn't let go and they finally manage to free Phil.

It's much faster to strip Phil out of his remaining clothes, and they join the pile of Clint's clothes. Clint allows himself a few glances, notes the scars on Phil's chest and hip, and of course his gorgeous cock. Clint bites his lips because he might whimper otherwise.

Clint catches Phil's hand and tugs him over to the ladder that leads to his bed. Clint takes two rungs at a time and reaches for Phil as soon as he stumbles onto the mattress. “C'mere.”

God, he wants Phil so fucking much, it's ridiculous. 

Phil stretches out on top of him, and Clint wriggles until Phil slides between his legs. “Fuck, yes.” He hitches his knees up around Phil's waist and shoves up against him. The drag of his cock against Phil's stomach feels amazing, and if Phil's moan is anything to go by, Clint isn't alone in that assessment. Phil's hand slides around to the small of Clint's back to keep him in place as he starts moving against Clint, which, fuck, Clint doesn't always like being manhandled in bed, but with Phil, he's absolutely on board with it. 

“How much prep do you need?” Phil mumbles.

“Um.” If Clint's honest, Phil could probably fuck him right now and he'd be okay. But that's freaked some of his previous partners out and they spent way too much time worrying about Clint, so he says, “Not much.” 

“Good. Where...?”

Clint points to one of the small compartments built into the platform of the bed. Phil's eyebrows rise when he looks inside. Oh, right, there's more than just lube and condoms in there. 

“I'd be interested in making use of some of that in the future.” Phil tosses a tube and some foil packets next to Clint's hip.

“Planning ahead. I like that.” He spreads his legs wider as Phil kneels between them.

Phil opens his mouth but with a minute shake of his head dismisses whatever he wanted to say. Clint squeezes his thigh in encouragement and rests his hand there as Phil uncaps the lube. Because he's a nice guy, he kneads his fingers together before putting them anywhere near Clint's ass.

Phil is clearly surprised when his finger slides into Clint without much resistance. Clint feels compelled to say something. The last thing he wants Phil to think is that Clint's been fucking around on him. Not that they've really said they're exclusive, but Clint feels it's been strongly implied in their interactions, and besides, he hasn't even looked at anyone else in the past few weeks.

“Yeah, that's, umm. Normal for me? Yeah.” Wow, eloquent. Really eloquent. Clint also doesn't add that he's been fingering himself in the shower almost every day this past week while thinking about how Phil's cock would feel inside of him.

“Alright.” That's all Phil says, but he looks steadily back at Clint, and Clint believes that it truly is okay, that Phil will just go with this. Which is nice. Phil pushes back in with two fingers. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't go slow, and Clint really appreciates that. 

“Keep going.” Clint twists his hips into the motion of Phil's fingers and sighs.

“But you're good, aren't you? I could fuck you now and you'd be fine.” Phil sounds like he honestly wants to know. 

“Yeah.” He decides to take a chance on Phil. “I probably would've been fine without any...” Clint waves at Phil's fingers. “Not always, though. And I don't mind if you like doing it. But, um, yeah, I'm often good without.”

Phil slowly draws his fingers out of Clint's ass and then bends over to brush his lips against Clint's mouth. “You're amazing.”

It's the most unrushed kiss they've shared since they set foot into the apartment. Clint's hands run down Phil's side and across his hip. He can't help reaching for Phil's cock again. The skin feels hot and tight under Clint's fingertips as he drags them along the underside.

“Clint—”

He takes that as encouragement and closes his fingers around Phil's dick. He gets one stroke in before Phil's desperate “Wait!” and he stops, or rather, tries to stop, but his brain-to-hand signaling is a little delayed, and before he can do anything, Phil's coming across his wrist and stomach. Phil groans helplessly and Clint strokes him through it until his head drops to rest on Clint's shoulder.

“Shit. I'm sorry, Clint.”

Phil sounds genuinely torn up about it. Clint turns his head to kiss Phil's jaw and murmurs, “Hey, that's okay. Has happened to me before, too.”

Phil sighs and stretches out next to Clint. “I'm sure it has, but...”

Clint reaches for the edge of the sheet to wipe Phil's come off his skin before it starts to stick. “But what?”

“That's it for me for tonight. Recovery time's a bitch when you get older.”

Oh. Clint hadn't expected that. It's a little disappointing, but when it comes down to it, it also doesn't matter, and Phil obviously thinks it does. “So? Plenty of other things we can do.”

“What, watch TV?”

Clint doesn't like the self-deprecation in that question. “No. In bed. You still have a working pair of hands, don't you? Put those to good use.”

Phil props himself up and studies Clint. “You're serious.”

Clint almost rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I haven't come yet, and I still want you to fuck me, so get to work.” He pushes his hard cock into Phil's hip for emphasis.

Phil smiles at him with such unexpected fondness that Clint almost squirms away from the gaze. “I can do that.” He sits up and reaches for the lube. “Do you want to do it the same way as before, or...?”

“I like being on my back.” Clint winks at Phil, who snorts in response.

“Got it.”

The hand that isn't going between Clint's legs comes to rest on his chest. At first Clint thinks that Phil is getting a little possessive, but that doesn't make sense with the rest of his body language, which seems less sure than before. Clint folds his hand over Phil's. Maybe he needs a little encouragement.

“I really liked what you did. It felt good.”

“Yeah? Like this?”

Phil is clearly a quick learner because the three fingers nudging into Clint are definitely, definitely more than good. “Yeah.”

“Tell me what you like.”

Clint swallows. Phil is fucking into him slowly, going deep every time. “This. This is—good. For now. When—when I'm close, go short and hard, and then, uh, sometimes I need a little push, so then, don't pull out, but just—shove into me, kinda?” He cringes, but Phil nods and looks a little dazed, so maybe that's a good sign.

Phil is trying different angles, testing what makes Clint twitch and writhe and gasp. Clint offers bitten-out directions— _up a little_ , _to the left_ , _god, there, yes_ —until the only words he gets out are variations of _fuck_ while he desperately works his cock to get off. 

“Close,” Clint manages, and Phil, bless him, presses his fingers inside as much as he can and tries to reach farther, pushing until Clint shakes apart. Through the daze of his orgasm, Clint thinks he hears Phil let out a sharp hiss, but he's too far gone to care. His eyes drift shut.

“Holy shit, Phil,” Clint whispers, fucked out and loose-limbed and utterly blissful. His entire body tingles and he wonders if Phil is as good with his cock as he is with his hands and how soon he can make that comparison. “Phil?”

No answer. Clint opens his eyes to see Phil curled up on his side, sucking in shallow, short breaths as his hands clutch helplessly at the sheet. Clint's heart slams into his chest. “Shit, what—are you hurt?” It's a dumb question; it's plain as day that Phil is in a lot of pain. Clint reaches out, but then stops himself. He doesn't want to cause Phil any additional pain. “What's wrong?”

Phil tries to answer, but only manages a groan.

Clint sits up, then kneels, uncertain of what to do. There's sweat beading across Phil's forehead and his eyes are out of focus. He still doesn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. Worst-case scenarios flash through Clint's mind. Stroke. Heart attack. Asthma. Problem is that he doesn't know anything about Phil's medical history. Doesn't know if Phil has allergies or heart problems or god knows what else. “Should I call 9-11?”

Phil jerks his head, which Clint takes as a no. “Back,” Phil mumbles.

“Your back's hurt?” Clint peers over Phil's side, but can't see anything on his back aside from the scar that winds across his hip.

Phil nods. 

Clint's hands tremble with relief. This something he can deal with. He pushes his palms across his thighs until his hands feel steady again. He realizes that he still has come all over him; he tugs on the sheet to wipe himself off. “Okay,” he says more to himself than to Phil. “I want to call Nat. She's a physical therapist and she'll be able to help. Is that okay?”

There's no reaction from Phil at first. Clint can understand—faced with the prospect of letting a stranger near you when you're naked and in pain would make him weigh his options, too. “If you think this will sort itself out on its own, then I won't call her. But she's amazing, and she—she won't judge or be awkward or—” Clint pauses, trying to come up with other convincing reasons for why Phil should agree. “I trust her, and I—I don't want you to hurt like this.”

Phil nods. 

Clint briefly closes his fingers around Phil's hand. “Alright.” He thinks that Phil's breathing a little easier and isn't holding on to the sheet quite as desperately anymore. “I'll be right back. Just need to get my phone.”

Clint climbs down the ladder and picks his jeans up off the floor. Phone in hand, he makes his way back to the bed. Phil's eyes focus on him when he sits back down next to him. Clint hopes that this means he isn't in as much pain anymore. “Better?”

Phil tries to shrug, then winces.

“Don't move,” Clint admonishes, feeling immediately guilty for telling Phil what to do when he's only trying to answer Clint's probably inane and unnecessary questions. “Sorry. Don't mind me. I don't know what I'm doing or how I can help you or—I'll call Nat now.”

“S'okay,” Phil whispers. He uncurls one of his hands from the sheet and makes a halted, grabby motion.

Clint takes Phil's hand, stupidly grateful to provide any sort of comfort. He finds Nat on his contact list, hits the call button, and waits.

“Yeah?” she answers after a few rings.

“Hey, it's me. Sorry to bother you tonight, I know you had a date—”

“That's okay, we're done. Maria's getting dressed right now. What's up?”

“I need your help. It's Phil. He—we were—well, he's thrown out his back, I think.” Phil squeezes his hand. “Yeah, his back. Could you come over and take a look?”

“Of course, but what were you doing, Clint? Please don't tell me you were fucking in the shower because I've told you before—”

“Geez, no, we weren't—well, not in the shower, but, uhh, yeah, that's why he threw out his back. Kinda.” Clint doesn't think Nat needs all the details, especially with Phil probably listening in.

“Okay. My bike's still in the shop, so I'll have to see about the train...”

Clint groans because fuck the G, seriously, fuck it. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, who lives on the G, I've heard it all—” A female voice interrupts her, but Clint can't make out the words. “Maria's offered to drive me over, so I should be there in twenty.”

Clint is impressed that Maira owns a car. He doesn't know anyone who lives in the city and bothers with a car. Perhaps a perk of that UN job. “Thanks. Is there anything I can do for him in the meantime? I have some Advil.”

“It's better if he doesn't take that.”

“Nat—”

“I know, you want him to feel better. But it'll be easier for me to figure out what's wrong without any drugs in the way. If the pain is really bad, then of course, yes. Let him decide.”

“Okay. Twenty minutes, right?”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

“Never forget that I love you,” Nat whispers, fast to the point that the words almost blur together, and then hangs up.

There's a tight twist in Clint's chest because she almost never says that to him even though she writes it to him all the time. She only says it when she knows that Clint is miserable. He closes his eyes for a moment. _Love you, too, Nat._ He sets his phone aside.

Turning to Phil, he says, “She'll be here in twenty. She said I can give you some Advil, but having the drugs in your system will make it harder for her to figure out what happened.”

“'m okay.”

Clint shuffles closer. Phil seems a little better—his breathing is almost normal, but the way he holds himself so carefully, as if any movement will spark another wave of blinding pain, clearly says that he's far from okay. Clint wants to tell Phil that this isn't a time to be stoic, and to take the Advil because he obviously needs it. But. Phil took him at his word earlier, trusted Clint to be the one who knows his body best. So instead of telling Phil that he isn't okay, Clint asks, “Can I touch you?”

Phil nods. “Not my back, though.”

Clint swipes a few strands of hair off Phil's forehead and brushes his thumb along his temple, keeping all touches light. Phil exhales with a shudder. “Okay?”

“Hmm.”

Clint doesn't stop until the doorbell rings. “Be right back.” He tucks the sheet a little tighter around Phil in what's probably a futile gesture because Nat will tug it out of the way.

Clint grabs a pair of sweatpants from his closet but doesn't bother with any other clothes. Whatever, it's Nat. He hits the buzzer and opens the door to his apartment, waiting for her to make her way to the fifth floor. 

“Hey.” She pulls Clint into a tight hug.

“Glad you're here,” he mumbles. “He's feeling better, but...”

“It'll be okay.” Nat lets go and tries to step inside.

“Um, one sec.” Clint joins her in the hall and holds the door closed behind him. “So, the, uhh, sheets are kind of a mess because we were, you know, having sex, and I would've changed them, but Phil can't move, so—”

“I've had sex before. I'm sure I can handle it.” She sounds amused.

“I know, I know, but...” Clint sighs. “This isn't how I wanted you to meet Phil.”

“It'll be fine. Is there anything else I should know before we go in?”

“Phil's kind of entirely naked?”

Natasha smiles. “I figured. I can handle that, too.” Sobering, she says, “He'll be in pain while I work on him, so if you can hold him, or talk to him to distract him, do that.”

Clint swallows. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Good.”

Clint ushers her inside and leaves her to take off her shoes. He finds Phil in the same position that he left him in, his eyes closed. “Nat's here,” he says softly and sits down close to Phil.

As Natasha is climbing up the ladder, she says, “I realize these are odd circumstances, but...” She drifts off as she lays eyes on Phil. “Detective Coulson.”

Her surprise is echoed by Phil. “Ms. Romanov.”

“You two know each other?” Clint looks back and forth between Nat and Phil.

When she doesn't offer an answer, Phil says, “Ms. Romanov—Natasha—helped me after I got shot two years ago.”

Clint's confused. “You needed physical therapy after getting shot?” That doesn't seem to be an injury that requires the kind PT Nat does.

“Perhaps you two can discuss those details later,” Nat interrupts as she kneels next to Phil's waist.

“I'll explain,” Phil says softly.

“Okay.” Clint's curious, of course, but they have more urgent things to worry about. 

Nat slips into her professional persona, which Clint always finds fascinating because he can still see his friend, but she's also oddly distant and polite in a way she isn't with Clint. “Can you tell me a little more about what happened?” She pulls the sheet down to Phil's waist. “Clint already told me you were intimate, and I don't need any specific details, but it would be useful to know what kinds of...motions you were going through when the pain appeared.”

“Sure. Well...” Phil's eyes dart here and there, and Clint wonders if he should jump in if it makes Phil too uncomfortable to tell her what they were up to earlier. But Phil carries on. “I was on my knees, leaning over Clint, and...I was using my hand. The pain started in my shoulder and then shot down my back.”

Nat carefully runs her hands over Phil's back, lightly pressing here and there. Phil flinches every time. “Did it seem to concentrate anywhere?”

Phil hesitates. “My left hip.”

Nat's hands migrate to Phil's side. When she presses down, Phil hisses with pain. “I assume you haven't had any more PT after you stopped coming to see me?” She sounds perfectly pleasant but Clint can hear the tiniest hint of annoyance.

“No,” Phil replies with a sigh. He brings a hand up to his face and rubs his eyes, letting his fingers linger longer than necessary, almost as if he is hiding behind them.

Clint raises his eyebrows at Nat, wondering what all of this is about, but she shakes her head. She looks down at Phil. “My guess is that your muscles have been working extra-hard to support your hip, so the additional strain of vigorous, repetitive motions led to a spasm. It's possible that your muscles have only cramped up, but it could be more serious. You need to see someone. Tomorrow, preferably.”

Phil nods.”I will.” He sounds exhausted.

Clint cards his fingers through Phil's hair in the hope that it'll help to put him further at ease. He's glad to hear that this isn't anything too serious, but there's obviously a lot he doesn't know.

“Can you roll over onto your stomach?” Nat asks, taking a gentle hold of Phil's side.

Phil doesn't answer, but he follows the motion she initiates, biting his lip and taking shallow breaths. As soon as he lies still again, he reaches for Clint's hand.

“Okay,” Nat says. “I'm going to work some of the kinks out of your muscles. It will hurt. Try to breathe as deeply as you can even if your instinct tells you not to. And feel free to squeeze Clint's hand as hard as you can.”

Clint leans down to catch Phil's gaze. “Don't hold back, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil replies.

Clint kisses the corner of his mouth. He nods at Nat to start. She goes easy on Phil's back at first, but starts digging her fingers into his muscles soon enough. Phil struggles to follow her instruction to breathe deeply, but he doesn't always manage. Clint lies down next to him and whispers all kinds of nonsense at him, about how well he's doing, and how he has to hang on just a little longer. 

When Nat starts on Phil's left hip, everything gets worse. Phil squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to suppress the whimpers at first, but he can't stop them after a while, a steady stream of small helpless sounds. Clint feels like someone is roughing sand paper over his insides. He desperately wants to make this easier for Phil, but he can't. He feels utterly useless.

“Nat,” he calls out softly.

“Almost done.”

Clint goes back to watching Phil. He's glad that it's Nat who's doing this because he'd be pissed at anyone else who'd put Phil through this. He trusts Nat to do only what's necessary to help; with someone else, Clint probably would have put a stop to everything ten minutes ago.

Nat's last moves make tears well up behind Phil's closed eyelids. Clint cups his cheek and brushes the wetness away. “Shhh, I know, shh.” 

When her hands move away from Phil's back, he lets out a relieved sob.

“All done,” Clint whispers. He looks up at Nat, who nods at him. He can see the strain in her face. This wasn't easy for her, either. 

“Thank you,” Phil mumbles as he burrows into the pillow, face obscured.

“You're very welcome.” Nat takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I'm sorry for putting you through that, but you'll feel a lot better in the morning, I promise.” She moves toward the ladder and asks Clint, “Walk me out?”

“Yeah.” He follows her out the door, stopping on the landing in front of his apartment. “What is it?”

She looks at him intently, clearly weighing her words. “You know I can't really tell you anything about Phil or why he came to see me, but you have to talk to him about what happened.”

“Okay...That's kind of up to him, though, isn't it?”

Nat takes a step closer. “I know you care about him a lot. It's...” She looks off to the side for a moment. “It's very obvious seeing how you are with him.”

Clint ducks his head. “Yeah, well...”

“I'm not saying that's bad. But there are things you have to know if you're serious about...Phil.” 

“Okay, yeah, I'll—I'm sure we'll talk. I can't believe you know him.” Clint shakes his head.

“It's a little weird.”

“A little?” Clint leans against the wall. “I know you can't say anything, but—he's a good guy, right?” God, he sounds pathetic and way too hopeful.

Nat regards him with fondness. “Yeah. Go take care of him, you sap.”

Clint hugs her, and he holds her tighter when she leans into him. “Thanks again.”

“Repay me by talking to him.”

“I will,” Clint promises and lets go of her. “Get home safely, okay?”

She turns toward the stairs. “I'll take a cab. I'm not even going to bother with the subway now.”

“Good.”

She waves good-bye at him as she walks down the stairs.

Clint takes a deep breath before he walks back inside. He goes straight for the Advil in his medicine cabinet and picks up a glass of water on the way back to the bed. By some miracle, he doesn't spill anything as he climbs up. Phil's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't look at Clint.

“Here,” Clint says as he shakes three pills out into his hand.

Phil accepts them with a nod and an evasive gaze. He swallows them without hesitation and drinks half the water. Clint takes the glass from him and takes a few sips before setting it down. He isn't sure why Phil won't look at him; if there's anything he's done that upset Phil.

“I kind of want to change the sheets before we go to sleep.” Clint pauses. “And maybe get you something to sleep in if you want. Or not, either way is fine with me.”

“Sure,” Phil replies in a flat voice.

“Um, okay.” He glances at Phil one more time before climbing down to gather sheets and clothes. The sheets are easy—he picks the softest ones he owns. They used to be a deep purple, but are closer to lilac now. He isn't entirely sure what to pick for Phil, but ends up with a pair of boxers and a T-shirt because that's what Phil wore when he stayed over two weeks ago.

They don't talk as Clint changes the sheets. He notes with relief that while Phil moves with care, he doesn't seem to be in considerable pain. Phil silently picks up the boxers and struggles into them without Clint's help, leaving the T-shirt aside.

There isn't anything left to do but turn off the light and get ready to sleep, but Clint hesitates. He wants to know what's going on in Phil's mind and he wants to be able to see his face when they talk about that. If Phil is willing to share, that is.

“Phil...” Clint calls out softly.

It's clearly an effort for Phil to turn his head and look up at Clint. “Yeah.”

“What's going on?”

“I—” Phil breaks off and licks his lips. “Sorry the evening was such a disappointment.”

Clint frowns. “It wasn't.”

“Really? I'm pretty sure this isn't what you had in mind. It's certainly not what I was hoping for.” Phil sounds bitter.

“Is it anything I did?” Clint asks without thinking.

There's surprise all over Phil's face. “What? No, you didn't—of course you didn't do anything. I meant what happened with—my back. Having to call Natasha. Ruining this night.”

“But...” Clint doesn't understand. This was no one's fault. Obviously. He reaches out and cautiously curls his fingers around Phil's wrist, glad when he doesn't pull away. “Phil, you didn't ruin anything.” He looks unconvinced. “I'm serious. You were amazing earlier, and then—” Clint's throat threatens to close up when he recalls seeing Phil curled up in pain. “I was worried about you, but I never thought that—that this was your fault, or anyone's fault. It just happened.”

Phil considers him for long moments. “You don't regret getting into this with me.” His voice wavers on the last few words.

“No,” Clint whispers. He has to reach for Phil; can't really help himself, but manages a brief “Can I?” to which Phil answers with a hushed “Yes” that gets half-swallowed by Clint's lips. The kiss is awkward because they're both too hesitant and Clint doesn't know where to put his hands or how much weight he can put on Phil, but then Phil wraps his hand around Clint's nape and pulls him down, opens his mouth and seeks Clint's tongue. That Clint can work with, and he gives himself over, lets Phil take what he needs.

Clint settles next to Phil after, close enough to share his pillow. They shuffle until they're both on their sides, facing each other. “Why'd you think I'd regret this?” He rests a hand on Phil's thigh.

“Because...” He halts. “Because of what happened to me two years ago.”

That seems like a rather involved conversation, and Clint isn't sure either of them is ready for that. “We can talk tomorrow.” 

“No, I need to get this out now. I don't think I can sleep before I tell you.” More softly, he adds, “Besides, you deserve to know what you're getting yourself into.”

“Okay.” Clint's at a loss for what to say. “I already know you got shot.”

“Yeah. But—can you get the light?”

Clint hits the switch. 

“Thanks.” Phil remains silent, perhaps gathering his thoughts. “I almost died. It was a close call.”

Clint's chest tightens uncomfortably. When Phil had told him that he'd gotten shot, Clint didn't think it was anything too serious. Phil had spoken about it so casually. “How close are we talking?”

Phil's voice is remarkably steady. “The first bullet barely missed my heart. If it had hit a fraction more to the left...but it missed. Tore into my lungs, though. The other bullet shattered my left hip. I almost bled out on the way to the hospital.”

Phil appears utterly calm, but Clint is just about to jump out of his skin. This is far beyond what he expected to hear, and it's terrifying. There's barely any space left between them, but Clint presses himself closer nevertheless, swipes his hand up over Phil's body until he can feel his heart beat against his palm. “But you made it.”

He can hear Phil smile. “Yeah. Against considerable odds if the doctors are to be believed.”

“Fuck. That's—that's...” Clint can't finish that sentence.

“Yeah. What happened after—it wasn't easy.” Phil paused. “No, that's not—it was horrible. I spent so much time in the hospital that I was wondering if they'd ever let me out. At first they needed to make sure I wouldn't die on them, and then...my hip was beyond repair, so they replaced it. Which added more hospital time.”

“That's what those scars are.” Clint's fingers trail down Phil's side, barely touching his skin.

Phil nods. “But the worst was after. When I was home, and—and I couldn't do anything I was used to. Everything took forever to do. Taking a shower was exhausting. Getting dressed was exhausting. Making a sandwich was exhausting. Thank god for Fresh Direct and take-out. I probably would have starved otherwise. And there were all these rules, like not bending over more than ninety degrees.” He halts. “I couldn't even tie my own shoes at first, or pick something off the floor. ”

“You didn't have anyone to help you?” Clint hopes that Phil had a friend, or a boyfriend, who had looked after him. He thinks of Nat, and how she wouldn't move from his side if anything like that ever happened to him.

It takes Phil some time to respond. “My sister flew out from Chicago the first week I was home from the hospital. She couldn't stay longer because she has kids and a job. It was—it was an odd situation, too. I was grateful that she came, but...” He sighed. “We definitely fought more that week than we should have.”

Clint lets out a non-committal hum. He doesn't know what it's like to have fights with siblings. Maybe he knew at some point when he was little. But most days, he can't even remember his brother's face. He pushes the memories away. This is about Phil. “And then?”

Phil shifts until he can lean his forehead against Clint's chest. “My mom offered to stay with me for a while, but that would have been worse than my sister. I get along with parents, but...a man in his late forties shouldn't need his mom to look after him.”

Clint doesn't know how to react to that. He'd give anything to see his mom again.

“Jasper—he works with me—came by a few times a week, but he was also picking up the extra work piling up because I wasn't there, so he was even busier than usual. He tried to be around as much as he could.”

“And there wasn't anyone...” Clint starts. “I mean, you weren't seeing anyone?”

Phil draws in a shaky breath. “No.”

Clint has a feeling that there's more to this than a simple 'no,' but he isn't going to press Phil for more of an explanation. He casts about for something to say, but all the things that come to his mind— _I wouldn't leave you alone_ , _If you ever get sick again, I'll be there_ , _I wish I'd known you then_ —feel wrong and too spur of the moment. If Clint ever makes promises like that to Phil, he wants to mean them. 

“I'm sorry,” he says and cringes at the stupid platitude.

“Well, that's life,” Phil replies. “I got better. Not like I was before, but...functioning. Able to get through everyday life. I went back to work eight months after I got shot, and—” His voice cracks, but he continues. “They put me on desk duty. It was justified, and it made sense, but it was hard—is hard. I always felt that I did my best work when I was out investigating, talking to people. Not behind a desk, worrying about schedules and supply orders and forms in triplicate.”

“I get that,” Clint says without hesitation. That's how he feels about his job, too. The paperwork is a necessary evil that he gets through so he can spend time outside, taking care of the birds in the parks and on the bridges. If he didn't have that anymore—well. He'd certainly feel like someone took away a part of who he is.

“At first, I tried to make the best of it. That worked for a while, but then...”

“What?” He wraps his arm around Phil and gathers him close. Phil's arm comes around him as well. Clint can feel his lips brush against his skin the next time he speaks.

“I realized that this wouldn't change. That I'd keep doing this until I retire. And that—” His breath hitches. “That I was basically alone.”

“Phil...”

“No,” he cuts Clint off. “Let me finish. Please.”

“Okay.”

Phil's voice is far from steady. “That's why you found me on the bridge that day.”

Clint's been bracing himself for these words for the past few minutes, but that doesn't make them any easier to hear.

“I thought I couldn't do this anymore,” Phil whispers.

Clint notices that Phil says he _thought_ , not that he thinks he can't go on with his life anymore. It's a small relief, but Clint thinks very carefully about what he says next. He feels certain about what he's about to say, but he's heard people say this to him and not mean it and he knows the hollowness that comes with that. “You're not alone now.”

Phil's hand tightens on his back, but he doesn't say anything. 

That's enough acknowledgment. Clint is fairly certain Phil knows he means that, that he's serious about Phil not being alone in this. Not anymore. Not for a long while, if it's up to Clint. 

“So, no regrets, still?” Phil asks, trying for a light tone, but they both know this isn't an insignificant question.

Clint doesn't have to think about his answer. “No regrets.” 

“I wouldn't hold it against you. I'm...in a lot of ways, I'm not okay. There's my back, and—well, let's just say my other issues could probably put a therapist's kid through college.”

 _College and grad school in my case_ , Clint thinks.

“There was some mandatory counseling after I got shot because of what else was involved in the case, but that probably wasn't enough. Definitely wasn't enough.”

Clint trails his fingers along Phil's shoulder. “Ever thought of going back to see someone else?”

“Now and then. But it's expensive, and I don't really like the idea of a stranger rooting around in my mind.” 

Clint gets that. If he could afford it, it would probably be good for him to be in therapy, but it also scares the shit out of him. Who knows what a shrink might turn up in his head. He's glad he managed to make it through his upbringing from hell and come out sort of okay. “I'm pretty fucked up, too,” he muses.

“It doesn't seem that way.” Phil noses along Clint's collarbone.

“Trust me, I am.” And if Phil sticks around, he's going to find out that Clint doesn't know how healthy relationships work because he's never had a model to observe or aspire to. He likes to think that what he and Nat have is good, but that's not romantic, and it took years to build. For all he knows, it might be entirely screwed up. “Why did you stop seeing Nat?” Clint asks because there's no way he'll dump all of his intimacy issues on Phil tonight.

Phil sighs. “I never should have done that, but at the time I was so sick of my body being broken and people telling me about all the things I still had to work on to make it better that I quit as soon as I was somewhat okay.”

That would have pissed Natasha off. She cares about her patients and she puts a lot of time and energy into helping them get better, even if that doesn't always come across so clearly. “You should see her again. I know she wants you to.”

“I will, if for no other reason than that I don't want a repeat of tonight in the future. Well, I definitely want a repeat of the earlier part of the evening.”

“Is that so?” Clint teases while also hoping for a serious answer because, god, yes, he wants that, too, and as soon as possible.

Phil pulls back to look at him. “You really have to ask? Clint, you're incredible. I have pretty good self-control, usually, and you blew that right out of the water.”

Clint's eyes fall away. Yeah, that's one of his issues right there. He doesn't think he's anything special. Sure, he knows that he's easy on the eyes and people want him for that, but it's more than that with Phil. “You're not so bad yourself. Your hands—yeah, let's definitely do that again.”

Phil smiles at him—the kind that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle—and says, “Any time.”

**

Clint's sitting on the fire escape, drinking coffee as the first rays of sun come over the building next door. Phil's still asleep. Even the sight of Phil, sprawled out with one lax hand curled around the edge of a pillow, wasn't enough to keep Clint in bed. Maybe if Phil had been awake. But after last night, Clint figures Phil needs all the sleep he can get.

There's a chill in the air and Clint tugs the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his hands. He's been trying to sort out if he feels any differently about Phil now that he knows what drove him to the bridge, and he's stuck between 'definitely' and 'not at all.' There are a lot of pieces that click into place. The lingering air of sadness that envelops Phil from time to time. The complaints about paperwork, which he always shares in an off-hand way, but which are clearly not insignificant. The way he's fallen head over feet into this thing with Clint (though Clint is glad that that is apparently entirely mutual). But does all that really change what he feels for Phil? No. And that's a relief in and of itself.

“Hey,” comes a voice from the window. Phil looks sleep-tousled and half-awake and squinting a little even though he's wearing his glasses.

Clint smiles. How can he not when Phil looks like that? “Hi. There's coffee. And grab a sweater or something, it's cold out here.”

“Okay.” Phil disappears back into the apartment.

He returns a few minutes later, wearing an old Parks and Rec sweatshirt—the thrill of seeing Phil in his clothes will never get old for Clint, never—and holding a mug. “Take this for a sec?”

Clint sets Phil's coffee down and watches him climb through the window. “Do you need a hand? How's your back?”

“Fine,” Phil replies as he settles next to Clint. “It's a lot better than it usually is in the morning.”

Clint lets slide the implication that Phil wakes up in pain because it's far too upsetting, and hopefully a thing of the past if Phil sticks to his decision to go back to PT. “Nat's magic at work.”

“If I had any doubts about going back to seeing her, they're gone.” Phil takes a sip of his coffee. “Mmm, this is good.”

Clint slides his arm around Phil and tucks him against his side. Phil's all warm and inviting, so he leans over and nuzzles against his neck and jaw until Phil squirms away with suppressed giggles. “Are you ticklish?” Clint asks, chasing after him.

“No—” He bursts out laughing when Clint's lips brush over his skin again. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Once he has Phil in his bed again, Clint is going to take advantage of this admission, but he takes mercy on Phil for now. “Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” Phil returns, hushed. He places his hand on the side of Clint's neck and runs his thumb along the edge of his jaw. There's a look of adoration on Phil's face that goes far beyond anything Clint deserves, and when Phil leans in, that look translates into a kiss that's unhurried and loving.

Clint feels a little shaky afterward, and he's glad when Phil doesn't say anything and merely rests his head against Clint's shoulder. They continue drinking coffee as birds start chirping around them and the sun makes it higher up in the sky. There are two adventurous sparrows that join them on the fire escape in the hope of some crumbs, but they take off after a few minutes when no food materializes. They don't fly off too far, though, and Clint watches them puff up against the early morning chill. 

“I have to ask you something,” Phil says.

“That sounds ominous.”

Phil ignores Clint's comment. “This—us—what we're doing—is that—are you serious about that?”

Clint wasn't expecting that question. “Yeah.” Realizing that Phil might want a more specific answer, he adds, “Yes, I'm definitely serious about this.”

“Good, because...” Phil shifts a little, and he looks nervous. “Because I'm—I find myself becoming invested in this—in you—and I have to know that you're in it for the same...I just needed to know that this isn't just—just a casual thing for you.”

Clint hasn't seen Phil struggle for words like this before, not even last night. “It's not just a casual thing for me.” He has a feeling that Phil needs to hear him spell it out in such clear terms, and it's good to be able to say that instead of something more vague that doesn't really let on how much Clint has fallen for Phil.

“Okay.” Phil pushes his glasses up with one hand and quickly wipes across his eyes before settling them back on his nose. “Okay.”

“You won't get rid of me anytime soon,” Clint says, only half-joking. Phil tenses up beside him. Ah, fuck. Too much too soon? “Sorry, I didn't—”

“No, it's...” Phil sighs. “There's one more thing I have to tell you.”

“Yeah?” Clint didn't think there could be anything more on the epic list of shitty things that happened to Phil.

“Last night, you asked if I was seeing someone when I got shot.”

Clint hums in affirmation.

Phil twists the mug in his hands. “Well, I was, and I thought that it was serious. We'd been together for almost two years, and I thought—” Phil shakes his head. “I thought he was the one, you know.”

“Okay,” Clint says slowly. It's a little strange hearing Phil talk about his maybe-love-of-his-life ex.

“We talked about moving in together, the whole thing. Then I got shot.” Phil halts, and that sadness that Clint has seen a number of times makes itself known again. “And he left.”

“Uhh, that's a pretty dick move, I have to say.”

Phil huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, it really is. He stuck around for a while, but when it became clear that the recovery would take a long time, and that things would be difficult for months...he wasn't able to deal with that.”

 _Asshole,_ Clint thinks. _Fucking selfish bastard_. Anger rises in him. Phil's the last person who deserves this. People have walked away from Clint, and most of the time, he sort of deserved it. But to walk away from your partner because he nearly died and will bear the consequences for the rest of his life? Unforgivable in Clint's book.

“I hope he hates himself every day for what he did to you.”

“I wouldn't know,” Phil says. “He moved to Florida while I was still in the hospital.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clint's voice rises.

“I wish I was, but no. He sent me a long apologetic email full of 'it's not you, it's me' crap and I haven't heard from him since.” Phil shrugs.

“Un-fucking-believable.” 

“Yeah.” Phil sets the mug next to him and leans forward, slipping out of Clint's embrace. “It made me question a lot of things. About myself. About why he walked away.”

Clint knows those questions all too well. He knows the self-doubt that comes with them. The nagging feeling that he isn't worth sticking around for. It's also blindingly clear why Phil asked Clint about being serious. Clint's never been in a relationship that's lasted more than a few months, and he's certainly never thought anyone was “the one” for him, so he can only begin to imagine what it must have been like for Phil to deal with that on top of all the health crap he had to get through.

He runs a hand down Phil's back because he isn't sure what to say.

“I haven't dated anyone since then.” 

That revelation makes Clint freeze up because holy shit. That's a long time, and that's a lot of expectations that settle on Clint all of a sudden. He isn't sure that he can live up to them—that he can be the person Phil hopes he will be, namely someone who won't walk away and won't break his heart. _God, why did you pick me and not someone a little less screwed up?_

Phil clearly notices Clint's tension because he turns toward him and says, “Sorry if that's—I know that's a lot to take in, but—I need you to know because I can't go through something like that again.” Phil's talking fast, almost as if he's worried that Clint will up and leave right this very moment. “It's unfair to you, but if I haven't judged this entirely wrong, we're—this—please tell me I'm not entirely wrong about us.”

Clint shakes his head, too many thoughts jumbling together in his brain to verbalize his feelings.

Phil lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

He doesn't look okay. He looks like he's on the brink of bolting himself. “Come here already,” Clint says. Fuck it, he—they—can sort this out later.

Phil clings to him. “Freaked you out a little, didn't I?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

Phil's heart is beating really fast, the thump-thump-thump of it reverberating in Clint's own chest. “I have a really bad track record with relationships. You should probably know that.”

Phil's quiet for a moment. “It's more important to me that you want to make this work.”

“I do. I do want to make this work.” Clint closes his eyes and loses himself in Phil's warmth.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta and I referred to this and the next chapter as "the weekend of sex." Just so you know.

Phil leaves around noon, and Clint spends most of Sunday vacillating between listless and hyperactive. He spends an hour on the couch, once again pondering Phil's revelation that he hasn't dated anyone in two years, and then two hours frantically doing three loads of laundry. 

Around five, Clint texts Nat because his thoughts have begun to run in circles. _Can I come over?_

The reply is prompt. _Did you have a fight with Phil?_

Astute as always. Clint only bothers with the trek to Greenpoint when she asks him to or when he's going through some sort of crisis; otherwise, they usually pick somewhere in the city to meet up. _No. But I want to talk about him._

_Come over whenever (Never forget that ILU)_

Clint is glad that she doesn't have any plans. He spends the next ten minutes pondering whether he wants to take the uptown or downtown route to the G—as if that train wasn't bad enough, it takes forever to even get to it—and then decides that catching the 6 to the L and then the G (plus five blocks of walking) are the lesser evil. 

**

“You're wet,” Nat says when she pulls open the sliding steel door to her loft. She's in gray yoga pants and a white T-shirt with her hair in a messy pony tail. She looks like home to Clint.

“It happens.” He isn't even that wet; the light rain had only set in two blocks from her place. “I'll dry.”

“Don't sit on the sofa until then. Oh, and make yourself useful.”

Clint takes her phone and finds the Seamless app already open. Dinner is an excellent idea. “What do you want?” He follows her inside, trailing after her to the kitchen side of the apartment.

Nat opens her freezer. “You decide.”

“Pizza?”

“Sure.” She places a bottle of vodka on the counter and reaches for two shot glasses. “Get Sal's rather than Grandma Rose's, they're faster with delivery.”

Clint eyes the vodka. It's a bad idea. Nat can hold her liquor much better than he can, and he isn't reckless enough to go climbing around bridges with a hangover. He could probably push his weekly nest checks until Tuesday, however. Talking about Phil will be a lot easier when the world's a little fuzzy around the edges. 

He takes the glass from her and knocks back the shot. The burn down his throat makes him blink, but the warmth spreading through his stomach makes up for it. Oh, he'll be drunk without even noticing. “Is spinach and ricotta okay? With extra cheese?”

“Sure. You decide.”

Clint decides that his clothes are dry enough and flops down on the sofa. Nat follows, bottle and glasses in hand, and sits down close to him. She turns sideways and tucks her knees under herself.

“Done,” Clint announces as he submits their order. “Should be here in forty-five.” He sets the phone on the coffee table and leans back. 

“So, Phil,” Nat prompts.

“Yeah.” Clint wonders where to start. “He told me about everything that happened after he got shot. I assume you know about the medical stuff?” She nods. “Right. Kinda scared the shit out of me. Especially the whole 'almost dying' part.”

“But I assume that's not why you're here.”

Clint sighs. “No.” He's trying to decide how to tell her about the more intimate details Phil shared without giving all of them away. He has a feeling Phil wouldn't appreciate that, especially not after deciding to get more PT from her. “Well, okay, here's the thing—he hasn't really—Phil's a little more choosy about who he dates, and it makes me wonder what he expects from me.”

Nat's eyebrows draw together in a frown. “What do you mean, 'expects'?”

“I mean...I guess, why me?”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “I think Phil is after more than my ass.” He pauses. “Actually, I know that's not the only thing he's after.”

Nat props her elbow up on the back of the sofa and rests her head in her hand. “Is that so?”

“He asked if I was serious about us.”

“And you said yes.”

Clint nods. 

“Presumably, he's serious, too.” When Clint nods again, she continues. “So what's the problem, then? From what I could tell, you're both into each other. And it's not just sex.”

Clint leans forward and pours them another shot. The vodka goes down much more smoothly this time and leaves a pleasant tingle behind. Nat looks like she just took a sip of water. “Yeah, that's—that's kind of the problem. That it's not just sex.”

“I thought you wanted that.”

“I do, just...” He leans back, his head lolling against the sofa cushion. “But I don't—you know that I've fucked up every relationship I've ever been in, so what if—”

“It wasn't always your fault things didn't work out,” she cuts in.

Clint is inclined to disagree, but doesn't want to get into an argument about his past relationships when he's worrying about his current one. “I still suck at them.”

“How do you know that Phil's awesome at relationships?”

Clint has a hunch that at the very least, Phil has more experience with them. He shrugs.

Her expression softens. “Seems to me that he's a little concerned about where all this is going, too, if he's asked you how serious you are.” 

“I guess so.”

The door bell rings.

“That was fast.” Nat gets up to retrieve their pizza.

Clint's stomach grumbles and he's pleased to discover that the pizza is pretty much perfect—thin crust, but not too soggy, with endless stringy cheese. They eat in silence for a while, and Clint doesn't hesitate when Nat pours them each another shot. 

Clint's beginning to feel slightly buzzed when he asks, “How are things with Maria?”

“Don't deflect.” 

Clint gives her an 'I can't believe you'd accuse me of that, I'm so hurt' look even though she's right, of course.

Nat licks a drop of tomato sauce off her thumb. “The sex is amazing and the conversation is kept to a minimum.” 

That's pretty much her definition of a perfect date. “Glad to hear things are going well,” Clint mumbles while chewing.

She narrows her eyes but doesn't rebuke him for his lack of manners. “Back to you and Phil.” In a kinder tone, she adds, “What's really bothering you?”

“Can we finish eating first?”

She nods, and they each have another slice. Nat resumes her previous position, except that she's now close enough for Clint to feel her warmth against his side. “Spill,” she encourages gently.

Clint doesn't really know why he's hesitant to tell her. She's the one person who really knows Clint, knows about his past and all the shit that's happened to him. “I—” he starts and swallows. “I don't want him to walk away once he finds out how fucked up I am.”

Nat's fingers come to rest on his arm. “You're not some broken thing, Clint.”

Of course she'd say something like that. Clint leans against her. She smells like summer. Like long days and endless possibility. He doesn't want to talk anymore and would rather lose himself in this rare moment of physical comfort from Nat, but knows that she won't let him get away with that. “I am, though,” he whispers.

“And what about him, hmm?” She shifts until Clint slides more comfortably against her side. “Remember the whole bridge thing? Doesn't sound that stable to me.”

She's got a point, and Phil had also mentioned that he has quite a few issues to grapple with, and yet he seems to have more of a clue how this whole relationship thing is supposed to work. 

“You probably need to figure this out together.”

“Yeah.” There's another thing that occurred to Clint on the subway ride. “I've been thinking, what with the whole not dating a lot thing, I wonder if he means sex, too?” 

Clint can feel more than see her smile. “Okay, now that's something you definitely need to ask Phil.”

“I know, but—” And really, it wasn't so much the prospect that Phil hasn't had sex in two years—although, what, how did he even go without for so long?—but more about how much sex Clint has. “I wonder what he's gonna say when he finds out that I sleep around.” That earns him a hard punch to the arm. “Hey!”

“You do not 'sleep around,' okay?” Anger weaves into her voice. “You have mutually consensual and hopefully satisfying sex when and how you want it. And if Phil has a problem with that, then you're better off without him.”

Clint should have seen this coming. They've had this conversation before. 

More conciliatory, she adds, “Has he given you any indication that that's a problem for him? You don't know why he hasn't been dating a lot.”

“Well...” Clint doesn't really want to tell her about the circumstances of Phil's break-up with his ex.

“Maybe he just doesn't do casual sex.” 

There's a strand of disbelief in her voice, as if she's heard of the theoretical possibility that those kinds of people exist, but finds their experiences and decisions far from her own. It makes him smile. They've always bonded over their shared attitude towards sex and it's been good for them to have someone who won't question or judge, but will simply listen.

“Hard to believe, right?” Clint's teasing; as much as he hopes Phil won't be bothered by Clint's fast and loose approach to sex, he's not holding Phil's decision not to date against him. Besides, he's been wondering if Phil doesn't separate fucking from feelings, in which case, yeah, Clint can understand why he wouldn't have been interested. 

“To each their own, I guess.” Nat sets up to more shots. “To mindblowing sex in all its forms.”

Clint clinks his glass against hers. “Cheers.”

The evening devolves into a vodka-filled haze after that. Nat remains mostly unaffected, of course. When Clint still has two sober brain cells left, he mumbles, “P'bly won' make it home.”

Nat snorts. “Yeah, I'd say that's likely. You can crash here, but only if you promise not to wake me up at 5am when you need to leave.”

Clint blinks and tries to get her into sharper focus. “Cross m-my heart and—” He substitutes gesturing for words. Words are hard.

She bundles him off to bed shortly after that and climbs in next to him. Despite her annoyed huff, she lets him be clingy. Clint manages a slurred, “You're the best.”

With a kiss to the top of his head, she says, “Go to sleep.”

**

It takes Clint until Wednesday to recover from his hangover. 

Phil doesn't say much at first when he hears about Clint getting drunk on Sunday evening, which leads Clint to avoid explaining why exactly he got drunk, but they both know that it's related to Phil's revelations. Even though Phil acts the way he usually does—that is, he texts Clint throughout the day and calls him at night—Clint spends most of Tuesday and Wednesday fretting about this non-explanation. He doesn't want Phil to think he can't handle what he's learned. 

When Phil calls late Wednesday evening, Clint is determined to be more forthcoming about why he sought Nat out, but Phil beats him to it.

After they've exchanged a few pleasantries, he says, “So, I wanted to ask—the whole thing with Natasha, is that how you cope? You go to her and...”

“And we get drunk? Kinda. There isn't always alcohol involved.” Clint's in bed and has his phone next to him, like he usually does, imagining Phil's there with him.

“Only when the situation is particularly dire?”

Clint smiles. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

“No. I was just curious.” He sounds sincere.

“Nat has a way of making sense of my thoughts when I can't.”

“That's good.”

Clint still feels that he needs to reassure Phil. “I'm glad you told me. About what happened and—everything.”

It takes a beat for Phil to answer. “Would you spend next weekend with me at my place?” The words tumble out fast.

It's an unexpected change of topic, but Clint says “Yes” on autopilot. He doesn't have to think about spending time with Phil. 

Phil exhales. “Good, I'm—I'm glad. You could come over Saturday morning.”

“Did you think I wouldn't want to?”

“I thought maybe you needed some more time to process last weekend.”

Clint nudges the phone closer. God, Phil has no idea, has he? “I already miss you like crazy and it's only Wednesday.”

“Really?” Phil sounds honestly surprised.

“Really,” Clint affirms.

“I thought that was just me,” Phil concedes softly.

“No. I wish you lived closer.” Clint can hear Phil fluff his pillow and it thrills him that he'll get to discover soon what Phil's bed is like.

“I can probably stop by after work once a week, at least.”

“Yeah?” Clint's been thinking about that but hadn't wanted to ask. Phil works long hours and has a long commute and it seems selfish to ask him to see Clint during the week on top of that. Of course, if Phil stayed over, his commute would be much shorter.

Phil hums in affirmation. “Not this week, I'm afraid, because everything's crazy, but next week, yeah.”

The prospect fills Clint with joy. “Saturday's not that far away.”

“Right. I can show you around the neighborhood and we could see a movie or something.”

 _Or we could stay in bed the whole weekend_ , Clint thinks, but he doesn't want to be presumptuous. “Sounds good.” When Phil yawns, he adds, “Okay, lights out.”

“Already out,” Phil mumbles.

“Okay, then, sleep well.” Clint wishes he could turn over and find himself in Phil's arms. Soon enough.

“Good night.”

**

Bright and early on Saturday morning, Clint makes his way out to Queens.

Phil meets him at the bottom of the stairs that lead down from the elevated subway track. He looks relaxed and happy. When Clint leans in to kiss him—slow enough to give Phil a chance to pull away—he's pleased that Phil meets him halfway. It's just a brief meeting of lips, but Phil steadies his hand against Clint's side and they're close enough that Clint can feel the warmth of Phil's body, all of which ignites a sharp want in Clint. This week has felt particularly long; Clint's done a lot of thinking about everything Phil shared last weekend, and what that means for who he wants to be, and can be, to Phil, but all that falls away now that Phil's standing in front of him. What's left is the question of how long it will take until he can get his hands on Phil.

“Hi,” Phil says with a smile.

“Hi,” Clint manages. It's not even that Phil looks particularly amazing this morning; his jeans are a size too big and the green T-shirt hangs oddly on his frame. Nevertheless, Clint wants him in a way that makes him hope the walk to Phil's apartment isn't too long.

It's not, and Clint is coherent enough to respond Phil's question about the subway ride and his thoughts about yesterday's appointment with Natasha, which they had been texting about last night.

Phil's building is so typically Queens—white brick, awnings, a collection of gnomes in the front yard—that Clint would have made a teasing remark if his brain weren't occupied otherwise. Once they're inside, Phil leads them up to the second floor and finally opens the door to his apartment.

Clint is briefly surprised at the open floor plan that greets him in total incongruence to the outside of the building, but all he cares about is getting closer to Phil. He drops his bag by the door and waits until they've both toed off their shoes to reach for him.

He brings both of his hands up to Phil's face, cradling it as he kisses him, leaving no doubt about his intention. Phil opens to him, sucks on Clint's tongue, and firmly grasps his hips to maneuver them against the nearest wall. Clint can't resist going for Phil's fly immediately, unzipping and tugging until he gets his hand on Phil's cock. He might be a little addicted and that's just fine with him. 

“God, your hands,” Phil mumbles as he sucks on the skin just below Clint's ear.

“What about my mouth?” Clint twists his hand. Phil's hips jerk entirely involuntary, which suggests that he thinks that's a really good idea. Clint's about to drop to his knees when a squeeze of Phil's hand stops him.

“Need to sit down for that,” Phil says, sounding a little out of breath. “Or this might end badly.”

Phil leads him across the room to the couch, which faces a wall of windows overlooking a yard and a row of houses behind. “I'm gonna close these,” he says while drawing a pair of light gray curtains shut. “My neighbors don't need to get an eyeful.”

Clint completely agrees and hovers by the couch while Phil, always so pragmatic, takes off his jeans and boxers before sitting down. Clint kneels and pushes Phil's legs apart, running his thumbs along the inside of his thighs. “This, too,” Clint says and tugs at the T-shirt until Phil drags it over his head.

“You, too.” Phil helps to get Clint out of the hoodie and T-shirt he's wearing.

Clint takes a moment to look at Phil, slouched down and spread out, a light flush spreading over his body that Clint traces with his palm, from the center of his chest down to his cock. He leans down and starts to work Phil over with his tongue. He knows how to make this last, which is why he keeps his mouth and hands out of it for now. It's just his tongue, which he laves over the head, down the sides and around the base without ever settling into any kind of rhythm until Phil is squirming under him. Only then does Clint slide his mouth over Phil's cock, loose and easy at first, but with increasing pressure. Phil's breathing tilts toward shallow. Clint relaxes his throat to take Phil all the way down. 

“Fuck,” Phil curses, his hips bucking in Clint's firm grasp. 

Clint's pleased with that reaction even though he was expecting it. He's good at this, and he's had enough practice to know how to make this good even when he isn't that familiar with his partner. He eases his hold and Phil pushes up a little into his mouth, still mindful even though he's clearly not completely in control of his limbs, and that's just one more reason to like him. Clint encourages Phil to keep at it until he sees black dots in front of his eyes and pulls off to catch a breath. 

“Jesus Christ,” Phil whispers, winding a shaky handy into Clint's hair.

“Yeah?” Clint curls his hand around Phil's cock, twisting in a lazy stroke. He rests his cheek against the crook of Phil's hip and looks up at him.

Phil only manages to nod, blank need all over his face.

“Good.” Clint turns his head to press a kiss to Phil's skin. He has some exploring to do. 

He keeps a loose fist around Phil while his attention moves lower, and gently pushes Phil's thigh outward, encouraged by affirming noises. He mouths and sucks at the skin there, nibbling without really bringing his teeth into play. Clint doesn't mind when things get a little rough, but that's something he wants to talk about with Phil first. Judging by the way Phil's muscles spasm, however, he might not be opposed to that.

Phil mumbles at him, _so good_ , and less coherent things. The hand in Clint's hair tightens as he noses at Phil's balls and licks at the firm stretch of skin behind them. Curious, Clint thumbs over the same area to find out just how sensitive Phil is. His answer is an utterly helpless moan and a hand tugging at his wrist.

“Don't want to come yet,” Phil whispers.

“'Kay.” Clint settles his hand on Phil's thigh and tries to figure out just how close Phil is. He gives Phil's cock a firm stroke, feels hot and slick skin under his palm, and yeah, Phil's almost there.

“Clint...” Phil pleads.

“I know, I know,” Clint murmurs and loosens his hand.

There's one more thing he wants to try before he brings all his attention back to Phil's cock. He coaxes Phil down lower on the couch until he's near the edge. “Can you...” He nudges Phil's right knee outward and up toward his chest.

Phil swallows, a faint blush staining his cheeks, but he opens himself more to Clint. He's so gorgeous like this, and Clint just looks for long moments. He wonders if Phil has an idea of what Clint plans to do before bending down and licking a broad stripe over Phil's hole. Phil squirms and winds his hand into Clint's hair again, holding him in place. 

Clint isn't entirely sure what that means. “Is that a yes or a no to this?” He tries to catch a glimpse, but Phil has one arm slung over his face. “I'll stop if this isn't your thing, but I like doing it, if that's what you're concerned about.”

A few moments pass in which all the reaction Clint gets from Phil is the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Then he uses the hand in Clint's hair to bring him closer. Clint's happy to oblige, and keeps going, easing his tongue over Phil's hole. Phil curses and keens, clearly enjoying this. Clint licks and sucks until he's sure he wouldn't find much resistance if he bothered to push inside. But that's for later, hopefully. For now, Phil's shaky exhalations urge Clint elsewhere.

He leans over Phil, whose eyes have slipped closed, and who barely manages a “Please” when he tugs on Clint's hair with unsteady fingers. Clint's almost tempted to keep him on this edge for a little longer just so he can keep looking at Phil, committing the sight of him being scraped raw and vulnerable to his memory. Mostly, though, he wants to make Phil come in the most spectacular way, so he wraps a hand around his cock and closes his mouth around the head. 

“Fuck, yes,” Phil exclaims. 

Unsure of what exactly Phil needs, Clint varies his touches until a near-sob tells him that Phil wants his mouth and his tongue and only needs a little pressure against the base from Clint's hand.

“Close,” Phil warns, but Clint ignores him; he doesn't mind swallowing. “Clint,” Phil tries again, sharper, and pushes against his shoulder. 

Realizing that Phil is serious, Clint pulls away just as Phil arches and comes with a hushed sigh. There's a tremble in him even when he falls back against the cushions. Clint rubs along his side until Phil calms. “Everything okay?” he asks softly.

Phil nods. “Yeah. Just.” He waves his hand. “Brain. Gone.”

Clint smiles at that and kisses the corner of Phil's mouth. “As it should be, then.”

Phil briefly looks at him before his eyes go out of focus again. Clint's been there—that moment when everything is hazy yet sharp at the same time. In fact, he was right there just before he realized that Phil had thrown out his back. “I would've swallowed, you know.” He wants Phil to know that for the future.

“Hmm.” Phil sneaks a hand between them to rub over the front of Clint's jeans.

Clint hisses because oh, yeah, he's so hard it hurts. He's been aware of that but too focused on Phil to want to do anything about it.

“My turn,” Phil mumbles. He's scarily efficient in getting Clint's jeans and briefs out of the way. “Talk to me.”

Oh, fuck. “Um, a lot of pressure's good—” Phil's fingers tighten in response, and it's so good, Jesus. “Like that, yeah...”

“What's the fastest way to make you come?” Phil's voice is remarkably calm, which might be the biggest turn-on of all. 

Clint's brain nearly short-circuits. “Uhh, keep close to—to the head, and use your thumb—” Phil swipes over the sensitive skin. “Yeah, yeah, and you know how there's that spot just a little lower—oh fuck...”

With unerring precision, Phil eases his thumb into the divot just below the head of Clint's cock, rubbing in circles until Clint feels like he's being torn apart. His thighs begin to shake. He's almost there, and in that moment Phil slows down, keeping Clint hovering on that sweet desperate edge. Clint doesn't even have words to beg; all he manages is a whine. Phil hushes him with a whispered “I've got you.” The pressure against Clint's cock returns, sharper than before. It's everything Clint needs, and he comes, spilling over Phil's fingers. He braces an arm against the back of the couch so he won't crush Phil and tries to get his breathing back under control. Phil's fingers keep teasing along his cock until Clint shivers away.

“I gotta...” Phil pushes himself upright. “My back.” He stretches his arms over his head. “I'm trying to avoid a repeat of last week.”

“Uhh, yeah.” Clint's eyes fix on Phil's arms. They're very nice arms, really.

“Pass me those tissues?” Phil asks, gesturing to the box of Kleenex that sits on an end table. “So that was pretty impressive.” He starts wiping at the ribbons of come that cross his chest and stomach.

“Um, thanks?” Clint's thighs are starting to cramp, so he stands up and shrugs out of his jeans, but decides to keep his briefs on. He sits down next to Phil.

“Seems like you've had a lot of practice.”

Ah, shit, here we go. But best to get it over with. “Yeah. I have. Does that bother you?”

Phil looks at him.“No. But don't expect the same kind of skills from me. I'm pretty rusty.” His eyes fall away. “Obviously.”

It takes Clint a moment until it fully sinks in that Phil had simply said _no_ and then moved on. It almost makes Clint want to stop him and say, _listen, I've had a_ lot _of sex with a lot of people and are you sure that you don't care_ , but he can see the way Phil awkwardly bunches the used tissues in his hand. It didn't even occur to him that Phil might feel odd about having sex again after such a long time. “That's okay. I don't—I'm sure whatever we end up doing this weekend will be really good.”

“I don't want you to be—to be disappointed.”

“I won't be.” Clint takes the tissues out of Phil's hand, scans the room, and then aims at the dustbin in the corner. He doesn't miss.

Phil lets out a low whistle. “Good aim.”

Clint scratches the back of his neck. He's always been good at anything that requires hitting a target—darts, basketball, that sort of thing—but finds that skill pretty useless overall. He shrugs at Phil's compliment. 

“I used to coach Little League, so I know what I'm talking about,” Phil says. “You'd probably make a pretty good pitcher.”

“I've always been better at catching,” Clint says with a wink.

Phil rolls his eyes. “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.” He's trying very hard not to laugh.

“Why'd you stop coaching?”

Phil gets this pinched look around his eyes that Clint has learned to interpret as a struggle for words. “I missed an entire season when I was in the hospital and recovering, and when I was finally well enough to...to do more than get through each day, they'd found a new coach, and, I don't know, it was something I'd done...before, but now...”

Clint turns toward Phil and wiggles closer until he's pressed up against his side. “If it's something you enjoyed, maybe you should start again.”

“Maybe.”

There's such a lack of conviction in Phil's voice that he might as well have said no. Clint wonders if the idea reminds him too much of how his life was before the shooting. Perhaps it's too painful for Phil to try to go back to coaching and discover that he can't do it in the same way now that there are limitations imposed on his body. But he doesn't want to put Phil into a morose mood, so he presses a kiss to his shoulder and doesn't follow up on the evasive reply.

Instead, Clint says, “It's always come easy for me. You know, hitting targets.” One of the few things. “Sex is also easy for me, but...”

Phil knocks his knee against Clint's thigh. “But?”

Clint glances up. “Feelings are hard. That's when things get messed up.”

“I think we're doing just fine so far.” Phil takes Clint's hand.

Clint ducks his head because hearing Phil say that makes him smile in the most ridiculous way. Phil chases after that smile, which leads to a kiss. Clint's pleased when Phil's tongue nudges at his lips; he's been with enough guys who wouldn't do that after where Clint's mouth has been. 

Yeah, they'll be just fine.

** 

They fall asleep in a heap on the couch and nap for an hour, but they make it out of the house eventually. Phil takes Clint on a tour of his neighborhood, pointing out cafes and restaurants he enjoys. Clint notes the markedly different feel compared to his own neighborhood. There are more families with young children and everything seems a little more down to earth. People seem far more concerned with running errands than wondering if they're wearing the right kind of vintage T-shirt.

Phil leads them to a tiny Greek place that barely fits three tables for a late lunch; the spanakopita and souvlaki are delicious. Phil suggests buying lots of appetizers and small dishes for dinner, which Clint is completely on board with because it sounds easy and low-key.

They spend the rest of the afternoon weaving in and out of family-owned stores until they're both carrying bags filled with different kinds of olives, stuffed grape leaves and peppers, feta and other kinds of cheese that Clint has never heard of, fluffy white bread, and a jar of _taramosalada_ , which Phil promises will be amazing but won't let Clint read the ingredients too closely. They also stop at a bakery where they buy small pastries made out of flaky dough that are topped with crunchy sugar and filled with guava. Phil says something about keeping them for breakfast the next day, but the pastries are so good that Clint finishes them before they even make it back home. Phil merely smiles at him with fond exasperation and kisses the last traces of sugar off Clint's lips.

**

Clint leans back in his chair, feeling absolutely stuffed. If he eats so much as one more olive, he'll burst apart. There are empty plastic containers littered across the dining room table, and Phil is scraping the last of the _taramosalada_ out of the jar with a piece of bread. Clint doesn't even care what's in that stuff anymore; he just knows that once he'd taken the first bite, he couldn't stop eating it.

“How did you and Natasha meet?” Phil asks.

“On the subway.” The memory makes Clint smile. “Well, at the West 4th stop, to be precise. We both had really shitty jobs that let out around 2am, and I'd always see her on the opposite platform. She was going downtown and I was going uptown.”

“That was before you moved to the East Village?”

Clint nods. “Yeah, I lived way uptown in Inwood for the first few years I was in the city. Nat's always lived in Brooklyn. Anyway, I always saw her and I knew she was aware of me being there, too. It was nice, you know? Knowing that she'd be there every night, waiting for the train. Then one week, I didn't see her. I got really worried even though I didn't know her, and I told myself that if she ever showed up again, I'd go across to the other track and say hi.”

Phil leans forward and props his chin up on his hand. “Knowing how the story ends, she showed up again.”

Clint's smile broadens. “Yeah. She was a little reserved at first.” More like extremely stand-offish and cautious, but that's between her and Clint. “We started talking, and the next evening, I got on the subway with her and ended up going all the way to Brooklyn because there was just something—” He still cannot fully put that into words. Once Nat decided he was not some creep, there was an immediate connection between them, which both of them refused to acknowledge for months. “It seemed as if she should be in my life, you know?”

“I'm glad you found each other.” Phil's thumb swipes over the back of Clint's hand.

“Yeah, me too.” Clint cannot imagine what his life would be like without Nat. Or where he would have ended up without her support. Not where he is now, that's for sure. 

They fall silent and Clint's eyes are drawn to the shelves lining the dining nook. There are a lot of books—he wonders if Phil has actually read all of them—and plenty of DVDs. Clint scans some of the titles and bursts out laughing. “Oh god, you're such a cliché.” He gets out of his seat and steps closer to the shelf. “ _Singing in the Rain? A Star is Born? On the Town? West Side Story? The Sound of Music_? Even _Oklahoma_?”

Phil gets up as well and stands next to Clint. “Hey, all those are classics. Nothing cliched about that.”

“Uhuh, sure.” He skims more titles. “I haven't even heard of some of these. _The Maltese Falcon_? Is that any good?”

“Is that—Clint, that is—yes, it's good.” Phil looks scandalized. 

“Oh, I've heard of this one!” Clint pulls _Some Like It Hot_ off the shelf. “Never seen it though.”

Phil takes the DVD from Clint's hands. “You haven't—okay, this we have to rectify. If you want. But I promise that it's really funny.”

“As long as it's not all stuffy and heterosexual.” That's one of the main reasons why he has never bothered to watch old movies. At least the newer movies are actually funny or things blow up in them. Even if they are also still painfully straight.

With the biggest smile, Phil says, “This film is as queer as a three-dollar bill, I promise.”

**

“Are you going to keep sitting over there for the entire movie?” Phil asks with amusement about ten minutes into the film.

“Umm, no?” Clint took the spot at the opposite end of the couch from Phil because he's supposed to pay actual attention to what's happening on the screen, and that's difficult when Phil's close enough to touch.

“Well, then.” Phil holds his arms out to Clint.

“If you insist.” Clint crawls across the couch and stretches out next to Phil, who maneuvers them around until Clint's mostly on top of him and has one leg tucked between Phil's. “But don't expect me to have a perfect grasp of the plot now.”

“The plot isn't that difficult. Besides, isn't this so much better?” Phil's hand sneaks under Clint's T-shirt and settles low on his back. 

Clint bites back a sigh of utter contentment over how good Phil's hand feels in that particular spot. “Hm, yeah. Go back a little. We've missed like twenty lines of dialog.”

Phil dutifully skips back to the beginning of that scene. The movie is pretty funny, Clint has to admit, and it is definitely as gay as Phil promised. He's a little amazed at all the stuff the director and writer snuck past the censors. But as the movie goes on, even Joe and Jerry's—oh, sorry, Josephine and Daphne's—antics can't hold his attention because Phil's hands keep wandering. Somehow, Phil has figured out exactly how and where to touch Clint to make him feel like every bone in his body has dissolved. And Phil's so warm and his breathing is so even, and really, no one can blame Clint for nodding off.

“Are you falling asleep?” Phil asks, low and fond.

Clint blinks open his eyes. “No.” His yawn betrays him.

“We can go to bed.”

“Movie's not over yet,” Clint mumbles.

Phil's fingers wander from Clint's nape to his ear, scratching behind it, which, fuck, is exactly one of those touches that led to him falling asleep in the first place. “It's almost over. I've seen it before and you've slept through the last twenty minutes.”

“You need to tell me what happens in the end.” Clint's fighting the good fight against his drooping eyelids.

“I can do that, but bed. Now.” Phil starts shoving at Clint, who struggles to sit up.

“I hope you're not expecting sex because that's not gonna happen,” Clint says and sways to his feet.

Phil laughs and reaches out to steady Clint. “I wasn't. There's still time for that time tomorrow, right?”

Clint kisses him, fast and soft. “Yeah. Definitely.”

They shuffle to Phil's bedroom. Clint manages to get through his evening routine without falling asleep in the middle of brushing his teeth, and he's relieved when he can finally slip into bed. A very comfortable bed with very soft sheets.

Clint groans with pleasure as he wraps himself in fine cotton. “God, what's the thread count on these?”

“It's...high,” Phil admits. He's sitting up, a book on his lap.

“I'm never leaving. Sorry.”

There's a pause before Phil murmurs, “That would be fine with me.” He clears his throat. “Do you mind if I read for a bit?”

“Knock yourself out.” Clint is certain he'll be asleep within a minute.

Phil shifts closer until his leg is a line of warmth along Clint's back and rests his hand on Clint's side. 

Clint drifts off to the sound of Phil slowly turning pages.


	8. Chapter 8

When Clint wakes up, he notices four things in quick succession: one, there's a warm hand resting on his back; two, he is drooling on Phil's shoulder; three, Phil is definitely awake; and four, his bladder won't let him lie still for much longer.

Clint presses a badly-aimed kiss under Phil's jaw and mumbles, “Be right back,” which Phil acknowledges with a soft hum.

In the bathroom, Clint ponders if Phil likes morning sex—but then who doesn't—and how presumptuous it would be to chuck his briefs and wander back to bed naked. Maybe a little presumptuous. He eyes his toothbrush on the way out and decides not to bother.

“Have you been up long?” Clint asks as he crawls into bed. He nuzzles along Phil's neck and soaks up the warmth that radiates off his body.

“Maybe an hour?” Phil pulls him close and nudges Clint's cheek until their lips align.

“You brushed your teeth,” Clint observes before they're really kissing.

“Habit. It's usually the first thing I do when I get up. I also made coffee. You sleep like the dead.”

Phil's teasing, but the words are laced with affection. It makes Clint want him with more urgency. He doesn't answer and chooses to put his mouth to better use by sucking at the skin just above Phil's collar bones. 

Phil squirms against him. “It's a good thing. I like that you're comfortable here.”

Clint doesn't explain that he's had to learn how to adapt to new places quickly, or that he feels at ease because Phil's there with him. He'd rather do other things than talking. He rolls onto his back and urges Phil to follow.

They kiss, finally, and Clint's hands wander under Phil's T-shirt, pushing it up so he can get at more skin. When he sneaks a hand down Phil's boxers, Phil lifts off him to give him more room. Phil's still mostly soft, which Clint likes because it allows him to feel Phil grow hard in his hand. Because of his hand. It won't take long because Clint has a pretty good sense of what Phil likes by now. “Want me to get some lube?”

Phil shakes his head. “'m good.” He kisses Clint's cheek.

When Phil starts pushing into his hand, Clint draws back. “Fuck me?”

Phil looks at him, flushed and so clearly, obviously turned on. “You really have to ask?” He pulls away to strip out of his T-shirt and boxers. 

As Phil digs condoms and lube out of the nightstand, Clint wriggles out of his briefs and drops them next to the bed.

Kneeling on the bed, Phil picks up the lube and then hesitates.

Clint slides a hand up Phil's thigh. “I don't need any prep. You can just fuck me. I'll be fine.”

Phil searches his face. _Please don't doubt me_ , Clint thinks desperately. _Not on this_. 

He's hit with disappointment when Phil flicks open the tube with his thumb. “I'll just put a little on you to make it easier in the beginning, okay?”

Clint smiles, relieved. “Yeah, okay.” He lets his legs fall open wider. Phil's fingers slick over his hole, but they don't push in. They linger for longer than strictly necessary, circling. “Tease,” Clint whispers.

“Can't blame me,” Phil responds. He reaches for a condom. “Are you good like that? Or do you want to change positions?”

“You know that I like being on my back.” He can see Phil swallow. Good. “Is this okay for you, too?” Clint brushes his hand over Phil's hip.

Phil catches his hand with a brief squeeze. “Yes. No spasms at inopportune moments, I promise.”

“Okay.” He drops Phil's hand. “I'm going to feel really tight, but don't stop, alright? It makes it worse for me if you stop. Just go slow and I'll be fine.”

Phil strokes the skin behind Clint's knees before curling his hands there to pull him closer. “Alright.” Phil squeezes more lube into his hand and strokes himself a few times before he pushes into Clint.

There's a burn, but Clint was expecting that. No one's fucked him in weeks, which is longer than Clint usually goes without sex. To Phil's credit, he doesn't stop, and Clint keeps up a stream of murmured encouragements until he can feel Phil's hipbones press against the back of his thighs.

“There,” Clint whispers. He draws a leg up, heel dragging against skin. The way Phil's shifting inside of him is already starting to feel good.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil mutters. He holds himself completely still.

“I'm good. C'mon.” Clint rolls his hips. Fingertips dig into his side in response.

“Can't. Too close.” Phil's harsh breathing breaks against Clint's neck. “Need a sec.”

It's startling to hear because they haven't even started yet, and Phil's already that close to the brink. It's flattering, too, to know that Phil wants him this much. It takes all of Clint's willpower not to press up against him again, to push him over. But he'd rather this lasted a little longer. “Just think of the city on trash day. In the summer.”

Phil snorts. “Eww.”

“You're welcome. Better?”

“Yeah.” Phil exhales. His hands push under Clint, curl around the top of his shoulders. It gives Phil more leverage and he presses deeper into Clint.

Clint moans, and the last trace of that burn falls away as his body becomes pliant. He hitches his knees up farther; opens himself to Phil as much as he can.

“So good,” Phil mumbles. His strokes into Clint take on more force.

It's not perfect yet—it'll take them a while to get there as they figure each other out. But it still feels amazing because it's _Phil_. Not everything Phil tries out works for Clint, but it's all unexpected and new, and he makes sure to let Phil know what he likes. There's a little hip twist that Phil adds to every stroke that finally make flashes of pleasure dance through Clint.

“Just like this,” Clint whispers.

“Oh, good, I'd been—been wondering if I'd forgotten how to do this.”

With a hand against Phil's cheek, Clint makes sure that their eyes meet. He lets Phil see—see how good this feels, and how much he cares about Phil.

Phil's breath hitches. He tucks his face into the crook of Clint's neck. “God, me too, me too,” he mumbles with a strained voice.

They move beyond words then, but Clint can hear every whine Phil makes. He's probably not even aware of making those sounds; Clint certainly has no control over the desperate noises Phil's drawing out of him. 

“Can you—” Clint begins when he feels heat curl low in his gut. “Move your hand?”

“You're close?” Phil's hand rakes down Clint's side and over his stomach.

“Hmm.” He catches Phil's wrist just as his fingers brush against Clint's cock. “Not there. On my back.” Phil's hand winds under Clint. “Lower.”

“Here?” He spreads his fingers across the small of Clint's back.

Clint sighs and nods. He doesn't know what it is about Phil touching him there. Phil puts more pressure into the touch and heat beats into Clint's skin. Everything winds tight inside of him and he's almost there, almost...

“Phil,” Clint whispers. “Short and hard. Make me come.”

Phil swears and loses his rhythm for a moment, but recovers quickly enough to fuck into Clint with the precise strokes he's asked for. “Keep going, keep going,” Clint chants. He's so close now that he can feel himself teetering right on that edge. It feels so fucking good that he struggles to stay there for just a little longer, until he can't hold back anymore and flies apart. Phil fucks him through it, slowing down as all tension melts out of Clint.

“Can I?” Phil presses the words out, trembling. He's obviously trying to keep as still as possible even though he can't keep his hips from jerking forward.

It's more considerate than some of the partners Clint has had, who'd keep going without checking if that was too much. “Yeah, I'm good.”

Phil keens and strokes into Clint with that lack of grace that suggests he's nearly there as well. He comes with two hitched breaths and a shudder. Clint gathers him close and runs a hand down Phil's sweat-slick back. 

Phil presses sloppy kisses to Clint's chest before slumping against him. “Tell me when I should move.”

“Not yet.” He wants to keep Phil as close as he can have him for a little while longer. He turns his head until his cheek comes to rest against the top of Phil's head. The short hair at Phil's nape are beginning to curl and Clint can't resist tousling them more. Phil smiles against his skin. 

“Are you always so quiet when you come?” Clint asks.

Phil hesitates with his answer. “Yeah. Is that weird?”

“No. It's not weird at all.” Clint likes it a lot more than someone who's screaming the house down just to prove that they're not holding anything back. “I was just curious.” 

“Okay.” He pauses. “That was alright, wasn't it? Us, just now, I mean.”

“Oh, you mean when you fucked my brains out about five minutes ago? That? Yeah, that was alright.” Clint kicks against Phil's leg to underline that this uncertainty won't do. “Geez.”

Phil rubs his nose against Clint's chest. “Okay, okay. I was just asking because—well, you know that I haven't exactly had much—”

“Hey,” Clint cuts in, low and urgent. “It felt good, ok? _You_ felt good.”

Phil smiles again. “Okay.” He adds a hastily mumbled, “You felt pretty amazing.”

As they fall silent, Clint closes his eyes. This is easy and comfortable and everything Clint had hoped for. Phil eventually moves away, but Clint doesn't open his eyes. He listens to Phil move around the room, water running in the bathroom, and the creaking of the wood floor as Phil walks back toward the bed. 

“Here.”

Clint blinks his eyes open and takes the washcloth from Phil—perfectly warm and just wet enough to get the come and lube off Clint's skin. Phil takes it back from Clint without a word and tosses it into the hamper in the corner. He stretches out against Clint's side, flinging one arm lazily across his chest. His head rests on Clint's shoulder, each exhale a soft sweep of breath across Clint's skin.

“Remember when it would only take five minutes to get it up again?” Clint muses.

Phil chuckles. “Those were the times...”

“Reminds me of the last summer I spent in Iowa. I was sort of seeing this guy, Jack. Son of one of the local farmers. He was fucking gorgeous—blond, blue eyes, the whole package. Never thought he'd be interested because guys in that town wore homophobia like it was a merit badge. But he made a move on me, and how can you say no to that?”

“I certainly wouldn't have.”

Clint smiles. Phil's bedroom fades away as he remembers driving a beat-up truck along dust roads on long hot days. “We used to sneak off whenever he could get away from the farm. We'd find a field somewhere and literally fuck all day.” He can almost feel the razed cornstalks scratching the skin of his back through a thin blanket, Jack pressing him down into the ground as the bright July sun caught in his hair. “One time I had to walk home three miles and I could feel his come trailing down my legs the whole way. God.” 

He's so lost in the memory—one of the few good ones he has from that time—that it takes him a minute to catch on to Phil's silence. “Um. Sorry if that was TMI. My brain-to-mouth filter kinda goes offline after sex sometimes.”

Phil pulls away and lies down next to Clint. “No, that's not—I didn't mind—” He halts.

Clint turns until he can see Phil's face. There's a frown there that worries him. “What?”

Phil's looking at the ceiling. “Do you do that a lot?” 

“Do what?”

“Barebacking.” A sharp edge lines that word.

Clint's eyes drop away. “I've done it a few times.” Maybe he should have denied it, but Clint believes in honesty when it comes to sex. And he's not going to hide what he's done or what kinds of things he's into. Besides, he's not stupid. It takes a lot for Clint to trust someone enough to fuck without protection.

“When's the last time you got tested?”

That's a fair question. Phil absolutely has the right to ask, but it stings nevertheless. “Three months ago, and I'm clean.” It comes out more defensive than Clint intended. “I'm not careless.”

“I didn't say you were,” Phil replies, a little more conciliatory. “I'm clean, too, for the record.”

“Well, good.” 

This conversation reminds Clint too much of why he and Sean broke up. When Sean found out that Clint likes no-strings-attached sex, and has quite a lot of it when he's not seriously seeing someone, he'd decided that Clint was incapable of commitment. Which was insulting and hurtful because Clint is perfectly capable of commitment, no matter how many people he's slept with.

Phil sighs. “Sorry.”

Clint looks at him.

“I'm sorry if I was a little too harsh there.” Phil's clearly struggling with putting whatever is on his mind into words. “I don't—safe sex is pretty much non-negotiable for me. If that's a dealbreaker for you...”

“What, no, of course it isn't.” Clint thinks Phil looks relieved. “Have you ever—”

“Fucked without a condom?” Phil asks softly.

Clint nods.

“I have. A long time ago.” He sounds wistful.

Clint runs the back of his hand along Phil's arm. “I like the way it feels.”

Phil sucks in a sharp breath. “God, Clint, you can't—you can't say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” There's a brief flicker of want in Phil's eyes. He wipes a shaky hand over his face. “We can't.”

“I didn't suggest that we should—”

“I know,” Phil cuts in. “But you'd want to.”

The thought blazes through Clint, bright and hot. “Yeah.” Of course he would. He hasn't been into someone this much in years, and the idea of Phil fucking him bare, of coming inside of him, especially after what they've just done....yes, Clint absolutely wants that.

“Fuck,” Phil whispers. He looks wrecked.

“I might want to, but that doesn't mean we have to, okay? Fantasy and reality and all that.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Phil reaches for him. “C'mere.”

Clint goes willingly. Phil kisses him, uncertain at first, his hand at Clint's hip barely touching. Clint presses it to his skin. He doesn't want Phil to have doubts. When Phil's fingers clasp more securely around his side, Clint smiles into the kiss. “We're okay,” he mumbles. Phil whines and kisses Clint more urgently. Clint lets Phil seek all the reassurance he needs. 

**

Phil drifts off again, but Clint is too awake to fall asleep again. He carefully disentangles himself from Phil and grabs a fresh pair of briefs and a clean T-shirt from his bag. Once he's dressed, he goes in search of the promised coffee.

It's still hot, and it's strong, which is exactly what Clint needs right now. He goes through the cabinets to locate some cereal and finds three bags of disgustingly healthy granola and one box of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch behind them. 

“Ha, knew it.” Clint would have been disappointed if Phil didn't have at least one sugary cereal.

He sits at the breakfast bar with his coffee and Captain Crunch and ponders what Phil said about safe sex. Sure, Clint is careful, but he's not paranoid about it, and there have been a few times when he let it slide when he really shouldn't have. Phil's probably the type who doesn't do that. He wonders if that's why Phil wouldn't come down his throat yesterday. If that's a line he won't cross. They should probably talk about this sometime soon—Clint definitely likes when things get a little messy, and it'll be good to know what kinds of things are okay with Phil. 

When Clint is done with breakfast, he rinses the mug and bowl and leaves them in the sink. He's drawn to the fridge, which is covered in magnets that pin take-out menus, photos, and postcards. A photo of Phil and a woman jumps out at Clint. The woman shares Phil's facial features, so it's likely that she's his sister. She seems a little younger than Phil and smiles broadly into the camera while Phil looks disgruntled, as if he was forced into having his picture taken. It's an evocative photo. Clint wonders if Phil has it up because it captures something fundamental about his relationship to his sister. The same woman appears in other pictures; in one of them, she holds two boys close to her side. She's clearly struggling to keep them from running off. The boys also appear in another photo; one of them holds up a baseball glove with a triumphant smile. Someone has written “Thanks, Uncle Phil!” in a corner of the picture. There are many more photos, of birthday parties and vacations, some of them yellowed with age. In one, an elderly couple stands on a beach with perfect white sand and crystal clear water. The man is clearly Phil's father, which leads Clint to guess that the energetic woman waving at the camera is his mother. 

It's as if Phil's entire family life is laid out on his fridge. Years of get-togethers and thinking-of-yous. It makes Clint happy for Phil, who clearly has a good relationship with his family. At the same time, looking at the happy photos makes Clint feel odd. He always feels out of place when he's looking in on someone's family. His eyes wander back to the first picture he looked at, and he takes it off the fridge for a closer look. He wonders if Phil and his sister always got along, and what they were like as kids.

“Oh god, that's a terrible picture of me,” Phil says, suddenly appearing at Clint's side.

Clint startles and puts the picture back into its place. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize. I don't mind you looking. Even if I look horrendous.”

“Why d'you have it up on the fridge if you hate it?”

Phil looks at the photo with fondness. “Because it's a wonderful picture of Jen.” With a glance at Clint he adds, “She's my sister.”

“I figured.”

“Here's Jen with her boys, Max and Eric. I think that was about three years ago. And here are my mom and dad in Bali last year.” Phil smiles. “They've been taking a big trip every year since my dad retired.” 

Clint nods. He has no idea what to say. He never knows what to say when other people talk about their families. If he'd had a normal childhood, he'd probably say something like, oh, yeah, my parents travel a lot, too, or my brother has kids who are just a little older than your nephews. But he can't.

Phil looks at him with a curious and open expression. “What about your family? Do you have siblings?”

Clint dreads those questions. They're perfectly normal questions, and he knows that it's perfectly acceptable to ask them of a near-stranger, let alone the person you're sleeping with. To be honest, he's surprised it's taken Phil this long to ask. He just wishes the question about his family wouldn't kick off a shitstorm of bad memories.

“I have a brother,” Clint begins. “Barney. He's four years older than me. But I haven't seen him in years, and—we—I grew up in foster care.” His voice has dropped to a whisper by the time he finishes the sentence and he can't look at Phil.

Phil moves closer until he's leaning against the breakfast bar next to Clint. “Oh, I—I didn't realize.”

That's the other shitty thing about having to talk about his non-existent family. Normal people never know how to respond and tend to look at Clint with pity. Clint hates pity. “Yeah, well, it is what it is.”

Phil shifts from one foot to another. “Do you mind me asking if...if your parents are still alive?”

Clint hugs his arms around his middle. He shakes his head. He considers leaving it at that, but he also wants to tell Phil. “Car accident. My father was drunk.” 

Phil nods.

“But that was after—after Barney and I were already in foster care.”

Phil slowly slides an arm around Clint. “Did you get along with your foster family?”

That question almost makes Clint want to laugh because it's so well-meaning and so ignorant. He wants to counter “which one?” but he doesn't want to shut down the conversation. Oddly enough, he wants Phil to know the extent of his screwed-up childhood. “There wasn't just one. I never stayed in one place for too long. Some were okay. Some weren't.” Clint shrugs. “I mostly kept my head down. Barney was more of a rebel. I think he had a better sense of what was going on because he was older. I didn't—” Clint has to stop because memories well up in him of being confused and not understanding why they couldn't go home and had to stay with these strangers. “I didn't really know what was happening at first.”

Phil doesn't say anything. He slides a hand up Clint's arm to his shoulder and back down.

“A lot of people who took me in were in it for the money. Which, fine, whatever, everyone needs to get by. But when I figured out I was gay, and I didn't bother hiding it, even the money wasn't enough of a reason to keep me around. I spent the last two years before turning eighteen in a group home.” It hadn't been that bad, bars on the windows and constantly having to watch his back aside.

Phil looks like he's struggling to say something, but can't find the proper words.

“It's okay,” Clint says. 

Phil opens his mouth. Closes it. Then starts again. “How old were you...you don't have to answer this, but how old were you when you went into foster care?”

Clint never talks about this. When he does decide to share how he grew up, he often lets people believe that he and Barney only went into the system after their parents died. But he'd already told Phil that that happened before the car accident. He draws a shaky breath. “I was eight. I remember this nice lady coming to our house one day after school, and she said that there had been complaints, and that Barney and I needed to go with her.” A heavy weight settles in Clint's chest. “My mom...she tried to keep us there, but she was high, so she wasn't making the best case. My father was sleeping off his latest hangover, so he didn't even know what was happening. So Barney and I packed a few things and then—and then we left.”

Phil draws him closer. “Did you see your parents after that?”

Clint nods. “I saw my mom a few times.” His eyes start to burn. He presses his lips together because he doesn't want to cry in front of Phil. “The accident was the next year, so...” There's wetness at the corners of his eyes, and he wipes the back of his hand over them.

Phil remains silent, but Clint can feel his eyes on him.

“I know that—that my mom and dad were pretty shitty parents.” He has to talk fast because his voice is wobbling. He hates when that happens, but he also wants to get this out. It's important that Phil knows. “My dad was an alcoholic and an asshole, but my mom—” He has to wipe his eyes again. “She was my mom, you know? And she tried. She made pancakes sometimes, and she made sure that Barney and I went to school most of the time, and—” Clint has to stop because his throat closes up. He tries to hold back the sobs, and he manages for a little bit, but he can't keep them at bay. He hasn't thought about his mom this much in years, and it fucking hurts. 

Phil pulls Clint into his arms. “It's okay,” he whispers. One of his hands settles on Clint's nape and the other rubs his back.

Clint cries for a long time, the really ugly kind of crying that leaves him with little control over the sounds that he makes and the snot and tears he leaves on Phil's T-shirt. Phil doesn't say anything; he just holds Clint. 

A point comes when Clint's body is exhausted. The sobbing turns into sniffling and then into the occasional tear. He feels numb all over. His eyes hurt. His chest hurts. 

Phil moves away with a reassuring “Just a sec” and rips a few paper towels off a roll that sits on the counter a few feet away.

Clint takes the tissues and blows his nose. When he's done and stands there dumbly with crumpled paper towels in his hand, Phil points and says, “Under the sink.”

Clint tosses the tissues and accepts the glass of water that Phil holds out to him. He drinks it down in four gulps.

Phil steps in front of him and rests his hands on Clint's hips. “Better?”

Clint wants to nod, but he doesn't really feel better. He drops his head against Phil's chest and just breathes. 

Phil kisses the top of his head. “How about we sit on the couch. It's more comfortable.”

That's a genius idea because Clint is exhausted. He isn't sure where or how to sit, but then Phil stretches out in one corner and Clint sprawls on top of him much like he had last night. He closes his eyes.

“I'm sorry if...” Phil hesitates. “If talking about my family brought this on.”

Clint tries to say “no,” but it comes out as a croak. He clears his throat. “No. I liked hearing about your folks.”

“Okay.” He sounds relieved.

Clint braces himself for more questions, but Phil remains silent. Clint is immensely grateful for that. Phil's hand sweeps over his back, light at first, then with more purpose. It makes the hollow feeling in Clint's chest ebb away. 

After some time, Phil asks, “Do you mind if I turn on the TV? I DVR-ed the Cubs game last night.”

“Sure.” Clint opens his eyes. As long as they don't move, he doesn't care what Phil watches. Even though he doesn't care about baseball. 

Phil fishes the remote off the coffee table and starts browsing through his DVR backlog. For someone who has a huge collection of fancy movies, Phil has a lot of trashy shows on his DVR. 

“Sorry that I'm not good company right now,” Clint mumbles.

“You don't have to be good company. You just have to be you,” Phil says.

Clint doesn't know what to do with the affection that surges through him. He squeezes Phil's side and hopes he gets the message. 

Phil does. “If lying on the couch and watching TV is all we do today, then that's what we'll do. Just tell me what you need, okay?”

Sensing that Phil wants a verbal affirmation, Clint replies, “Okay.”

“Good.”

Phil turns his attention to the game, and Clint tries to narrow his thoughts to the kindness that flows from Phil's fingers as they once again sweep over Clint.

**

Halfway through the game, Phil gets up and walks over to the kitchen area. Clint registers the opening and closing of the fridge and various cabinets, but he's too caught up in random strings of memories to pay more attention to what Phil is doing. When Phil comes back and sets a plate with a sandwich in front of Clint, he looks up with surprise.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Phil says, sitting down with his own sandwich. “I know I was.”

Clint isn't sure if he's hungry, but he's touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Phil's eyes linger.

“I'm okay,” Clint says. “Well, sort of. Getting there.”

Phil nods and picks up his sandwich. Clint takes a bite as well and realizes that he's starving. He can't suppress the groan of appreciation over how good this sandwich is. If he'd been by himself, he probably wouldn't have bothered with something to eat until he was on the brink of passing out. It feels good to have someone who cares enough to make sure that doesn't happen. Nat cares, too, of course, but she's just as likely to forget to eat or or to keep track of some other basic function of everyday life as Clint is.

“Thanks,” Clint mumbles again.

“I'm glad you're enjoying it.”

“Best fucking sandwich ever,” Clint says and means it.

Phil laughs. “You're just hungry.” He looks pleased, though.

Once they're done, Phil clears away their plates. He pulls Clint against his side when he returns to the couch. “Clint.”

“Yeah.” He slides lower on the couch so he can tuck his head under Phil's chin.

“Thanks for telling me. About—about how you grew up. I'm not going to pretend to know what that must have been like. I've seen kids go into the system because of my job, but that's all I know.” He lowers his voice. “And on the risk of sounding incredibly sappy, I like you as much as before you told me. Just in case you were wondering.” 

Clint can tell that Phil's gone a little tense. Yeah, that was pretty sappy, but if he's honest with himself, it's good to hear. He leans up and kisses Phil, slow and soft, until he can feel him relax. “I rather like you, too,” Clint admits.

Phil smiles at him, eye-crinkles and all, and holds him through the rest of the game.

**

Phil manages to drag Clint out of the house with the promise of ice cream. Clint was hesitant to leave, but they're not even halfway down the block when he breathes a little easier. He keeps bumping his fingers against Phil's until Phil takes his hand.

While they're waiting at a light, Clint hears snickering behind them, and he turns enough to see two teenage boys behind them. He ignores them, but Phil turns around with a stern look that makes the boys fall silent immediately. Clint wonders if that's his Detective Coulson “you're under arrest” expression. He has to admit that it's kinda hot when Phil is authoritative. Just for the hell of it, Clint leans in and presses a kiss to Phil's lips. He doesn't hear anything from the peanut gallery behind them.

“Don't push it,” Phil whispers, but he kisses back pretty eagerly.

“Never,” Clint promises with exaggerated sincerity.

Phil shakes his head and pulls him across the street.

The ice cream shop has an abundance of flavors and Clint has a difficult time deciding. Dark chocolate? Salted caramel? Coconut? Pistachio? Mango? Sesame? Green tea? He tries all of them and can tell that the sales associate is getting impatient with him, so he settles on chocolate peanut butter and banana. In a cone, of course, because that's the only way to eat ice cream. Phil has vanilla and chocolate in a cup, which Clint would have found boring in anyone else, but it's so Phil that he finds it endearing. Steadfast is the other word that comes to Clint's mind. 

“Tell me something about you and your sister when you were kids,” Clint says as they're walking back to Phil's apartment.

“Are you sure?”

Clint nods. Much like Phil doesn't know anything about foster care, Clint's idea of a normal childhood is restricted to what he's picked up from movies and the occasional story someone's told him. He's always curious to hear more.

“Well, let's see...” Phil eats two spoonfuls of ice cream. “When we were kids, we'd go to a lake in Wisconsin for a week each summer. We always rented a cabin, and one summer, there was a big stack of firewood next to it. I think I was about ten, and Jen must have been six. A lot of frogs lived in that wood, and Jen and I were obsessed with catching the frogs. They were tiny and green and sometimes impossible to see in the grass. We weren't very good at keeping a hold of them once we caught them, so they'd jump all over us.”

Clint smiles at the image of ten-year old Phil with a frog perched on his shoulder. “Did you ever kiss one to see if he'd turn into a prince?”

Phil laughed. “No. But I think Jen did. My parents probably had the most relaxing vacation in years because of how distracted we were by those frogs. And Jen and I were crushed the next year when there weren't any frogs.”

It sounds like a magical holiday to Clint. He's glad that Phil got to experience that. 

“Sorry, that wasn't a great story,” Phil says. Clint is about to protest when Phil adds, “But I'll have you know that the way you eat ice cream qualifies for public indecency, so I was a little distracted.”

Clint wasn't aware of that. Granted, his scoops are melting faster than he can eat them, so he keeps licking along the cone in broad stripes to catch all the rivulets of ice cream, but public indecency? That's practically a challenge. “Oh?” Clint swirls his tongue around the top of his cone. 

A flush steals across Phil's cheeks. “You're doing that on purpose.”

“Yes.” Clint grins.

“Impossible,” Phil mutters, but he keeps stealing glances until Clint has finished his cone.

Once they're back home, Phil takes both of Clint's hands. “Let's go to bed.”

“I'm not tired,” Clint replies. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realizes that Phil probably doesn't mean that they should go to bed to sleep. “Um.”

Phil cracks up.

“Are you laughing at me?” Clint asks, trying for indignant, but his shoulders shake with mirth.

“No.” Phil doubles over with laughter.

“Oh, this means war.” Clint remembers Phil admitting that he's ticklish and sets out to see just how ticklish that would be. As it turns out, a lot. Phil crumbles against him, gasping for breath in-between rather undignified squeaks.

“Okay, stop, stop,” Phil pleads after a few minutes, red-faced and out of breath. It's a good look on him.

“You brought that on yourself.” His thumbs dig into the ridge of Phil's hips, sliding across bare skin where his shirt has come loose.

Phil shivers. “Bed. Now.”

They undress without hurry. Clint lets himself be pulled down on the bed and on top of Phil. They kiss until Phil's hard cock paints wet stripes across Clint's hip. He pulls away and nuzzles Phil's neck.

“What do you want?” Clint asks. “We can just keep doing this, or I can suck you off again—”

“Will you fuck me?” Phil asks, low and urgent.

Clint raises his head; he needs to see Phil's face. “Wasn't sure if you're into that.” He swipes his fingers along Phil's cheek.

“I am. With the right person.”

Knowing that he's the right person does things to Clint. He presses down against Phil, who answers with a roll of his hips.

“Can you...” Phil gestures to the night stand.

Clint reaches over to gather the supplies that still sit out there from last night.

Phil takes the lube out of his hands. “In the interest of expediency, I hope you don't mind if I do this myself.” 

“Uhh, no, go ahead.” Clint's a little disappointed because he likes this part, and he likes being able to feel when his partner is ready. But Phil has been good at taking Clint at his word when it comes to this, so it's only fair to return the favor. 

Phil rolls them over until they're facing each other and hooks a leg over Clint's hip. “Kiss me?”

Clint brings their lips together. At first, Clint feels a little odd about this kiss because Phil's attention his partially elsewhere. But being so close also lets him feel more of what Phil's doing than he expected, and certainly more than if he'd simply watched. There are moments when Phil's mouth goes slack, small puffs of breath against Clint's lips, and he can feel Phil's arm brush against his skin when he twists his fingers. After a few minutes, Phil moans and kisses Clint with more need. 

When Phil pulls away with a soft “Okay,” Clint can't resist sliding his hand up Phil's thigh. “Can I?”

“Sure, yeah.” Phil kneads Clint's fingers to spread the remnants of lube onto them.

There isn't much resistance to Clint's two fingers. “You were pretty thorough.”

“I may have been expecting this.” Phil clears his throat. “It seemed prudent to be prepared.”

Clint smiles. “Phil Coulson, have you been fingering yourself in the hopes that I'd fuck you?” 

Oh, there's that gorgeous blush again. “Perhaps.”

“Well, then let's get to that.” Clint busies himself with the condom. “How do you want to do this?”

Phil turns until his back is to Clint. “Like this.”

“Alright.” Clint knows from experience that this position can be tricky, but if it's Phil's favorite, then they're going to make it work. He shifts closer to Phil and props himself up on an elbow. Phil pulls his leg toward his chest, which makes it easier for Clint to push inside. He keeps a close eye on Phil, who bites his lip at one point, but doesn't ask Clint to slow down. “Lean against me,” he encourages Phil once he's all the way inside.

Phil groans when he shifts his weight. 

“Good, I hope?” Clint brushes his lips across Phil's shoulder, who nods and presses his hips back. “Mmm, message received.” 

At first, things go well. Clint finds a rhythm that works for both of them, but once he tries to put more force into fucking Phil, his feet keep sliding on the sheets. It's frustrating because it's clear that they both want it a little rougher. Phil does seem to enjoy himself even though he can probably tell Clint is struggling. Phil reaches back to grasp Clint's hip, and that helps for a while. When Clint is just at the point where all his thoughts are reduced to _want_ and _Phil_ , he loses his footing so spectacularly that he slips out of Phil, who winces and lets out a hiss.

“Shit, sorry, sorry.” Clint bends over Phil. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, but the pinched expression on his face suggests that this hurt.

Clint's head drops to Phil's shoulder. “I keep sliding away on your thousand thread-count sheets.”

Phil sighs. “I kinda noticed.”

“I'm sorry, I know you really wanted—”

“It's okay.” Phil finds Clint's hand for a brief squeeze.

Clint trails his fingers across Phil's chest and notes that he's still mostly hard, so the mood isn't entirely ruined. “We could try it like this.” He gently pushes at Phil's shoulder until he's on his stomach. Clint doesn't like to get fucked in that position because he feels too caged in, but Phil might like it.

“Yeah, that's good.” He grabs a pillow and curls around it, drawing one leg up to open himself to Clint.

Clint presses his thumb against the taut muscles in Phil's neck until the tension there dissolves and his head dips forward. “I'll go slow.”

Phil hums in agreement, and Clint picks up the lube. He wants to make sure Phil's comfortable and it also gives him an excuse to check if there are any tears. It's unlikely, but better safe than sorry. His fingers rub across Phil's hole and dip inside. Everything's fine and Phil feels loose enough.

“C'mon,” Phil mutters.

“Okay, okay.” 

Clint is probably more careful than he needs to be judging by how urgently Phil's hips push back against him, but he knows that it's been a long time for Phil, and dammit, he's determined to make this memorable, especially after the awkward start.

It's much easier this time. Clint digs his knees into the mattress, and it doesn't take long until he stops worrying. He can't see much of Phil's face, but he can hear him, low whines and other desperate sounds. It's enough of a guide for Clint to figure out how deep, how hard, what angle. 

He's mesmerized by the way the muscles in Phil's back move. He chases the ripples with his palm, starting at Phil's hip and moving up to his shoulder. Phil sighs, a soft whoosh of air, almost as if Clint's hand pushed it out of him.

“Clint,” Phil whispers.

Clint leans down to trace the same path with his tongue. “Yeah?”

Phil shivers and fumbles for Clint's hand. He draws it underneath himself, close to his chest, and laces his fingers with Clint. Phil's heart's beating wild and fast. It sweeps Clint up into the closeness he has with Phil. Pushed up against him all the way, Clint keeps almost still, occasional twist of hips aside, and he puts more weight on Phil.

Phil nearly sobs. Clint is fascinated—he'd be on the edge of panic if someone pinned him down like this, but Phil is clutching desperately at Clint's hand, and he's jerking back against him with a helplessness that says everything about how turned on he is. 

“Can't hold on much longer,” Phil whispers hoarsely.

“Almost there,” Clint affirms. Phil being this pliant under him brings Clint to the point where his body's telling him to just shove into Phil, to chase after release, and he groans with the effort of holding back. 

Phil presses Clint's hand against his chest before moving his own fingers lower. “Let go.”

Clint marvels at how good it feels to let the last restraint fall away, to let his hips snap forward without any grace. His forehead comes to rest between Phil's shoulder blades and he nuzzles the slick skin there, allowing some deep-seated instinct to take over. It doesn't take long until Phil tenses under him for one glorious moment; his breath hitches and he comes with a quiet sigh. Clint's orgasm shudders through him in a long wave, his hips stuttering against Phil. 

Clint doesn't get a moment to catch his breath before Phil's hand pushes him off with some urgency. Rolling onto his back is all Clint is capable of.

“I get really sensitive,” Phil mumbles.

Clint flings his arm in Phil's direction, and he manages to drag the back of his hand across Phil's shoulders before letting it drop again. “Got it.”

Their quiet breathing fills the room for the next few minutes. Clint finally feels recovered enough to grab the box of tissues that's in convenient reach—Phil has tissues stashed everywhere, it's awesome—and takes care of the condom. He drops it next to the bed because even throwing it across the room is too much work right now. Phil plucks a few tissues out of the box as well.

When Phil wiggles closer, Clint folds him into his arms. As the minutes pass, Clint worries that he's holding on for too long and that they should start talking or get up—it is only late afternoon, after all—but Phil remains quiet, his hand curled over Clint's side. Neither of them falls asleep. Clint waits for this to feel awkward, but it doesn't, and eventually, he closes his eyes and lets things be. This entire weekend has been a lot easier than Clint anticipated, difficult conversations included. Phil's constant presence hasn't started to bother him, and Phil's generous affection is wonderful. There's an ease about Clint's heart that hasn't been there in a long time.

“When do you have to leave?” Phil asks in a way that suggests he'd rather not ask, but needs to know so he can prepare himself.

“I was thinking tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you.”

Phil shifts more fully on top of Clint and props his chin on his chest. “Yeah, that is...that is actually longer than...I thought you might have to leave tonight.”

“No. Not leaving yet.” Clint runs the tips of his fingers down Phil's back, over his ass and along his thigh.

Phil sucks in a breath. “You better not hope for anything more because that's not going to happen.”

“I know.” Clint smiles. “Just enjoying the moment.”

“In that case, carry on.” Phil lies back down, and Clint lets his fingers wander over his skin again.

**

They stand in the doorway to Phil's apartment the next morning at 6am, more asleep than awake. Clint's dressed in his Parks uniform and Phil is still in pajamas. They're sharing a hug that's lasted too long already, but neither of them pulls away. Clint's face is buried in Phil's neck, soaking up warmth and sleepiness and Phil. He has to stock up for the entire week, which Clint already knows will feel impossibly long.

“Alright, going now,” he says, finally, because he does have to leave now or he'll be late for work. 

“Okay.” Phil pulls back and kisses Clint. “Love you.” And then he freezes.

Clint remains very still and wonders if he's really heard Phil say that. He stares at Phil, who very much will not meet his eyes.

“I—” Phil starts.

“What—” Clint says at the same time. 

“That—” Phil tries again.

“I'm—I'll just go,” Clint says because he wants to spare Phil whatever he's trying to say.

“Clint,” Phil pleads, but doesn't say anything else.

“Call me tonight, okay?” He doesn't want Phil to think he's mad or upset, even if he's really kind of freaking out. Because wow. 

“Okay.” Phil lets out a breath. “Okay.”

Clint nods, grabs his bag, and jogs down the stairs without looking back.


	9. Chapter 9

“So, Phil maybe told me that he loves me,” Clint says once he and Nat finally sit on a [bench](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9409151625/sizes/l/in/photostream/) in Madison Square Park late Monday afternoon.

He's held this news in the entire day, even though Natasha texted him first thing to get the scoop on the weekend with Phil. Clint couldn't bring himself to tell her via text, or when they met at the corner of Park and 23rd, or when they were getting iced coffees up the street at Fika, or while they were waiting for fresh donuts at the [Carpe Donut truck](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9409152511/sizes/l/in/photostream/), or while they were walking down the Alley of Anxiety, aka East 24th, which they've dubbed that because it's always lined with desperate Credit Suisse bankers out for a harried smoke break. But once they got to the park, there was no excuse left.

Nat nearly chokes on her donut. “He what? And what do you mean, 'maybe'?”

“Well, we were saying goodbye this morning, and he kissed me, and then he said 'love you.'” Telling Nat makes it feel all too real.

“Do you think he meant it?”

“I don't know.” That's a lie. “Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“I know.” Clint lets the noises in the park wash over him—the creaking of the swing sets in the playground behind him, children's laughter, construction noise, and the never-ending stream of traffic. “I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to say it. I think it was one of those things you say when you're saying goodbye to someone you're in a relationship with. Right?”

Nat shrugs.

Yeah, that's not the kind of relationship she has. “But—” This is the part Clint's been pondering all day once he'd accepted that Phil had actually said what he'd said. “Even if he let it slip by accident, I don't think he would have said it if he didn't mean it.” That's the one thing Clint is sure of regarding this entire incident. He knows that Phil is not the kind of guy who goes around dropping “love you” all over the place, accidental or not. Clint knows that Phil likes him—he'd said as much, after all. But perhaps he underestimated how much Phil likes him.

Natasha looks at him intently. “How do you feel about that?” 

“I don't know. Overwhelmed? Because holy shit, he said—” The words remain lodged in Clint's throat. A hand settles on his arm.

“Would you say it back?” Nat asks softly.

Oh god, Clint had not even thought about that. He rubs his palms over his thighs. “I don't know if I can.” He likes Phil. Obviously. But love has always been a touchy subject for Clint, and he's ended more than one relationship because someone broke out the L word far, far too soon. There's no way he's breaking up with Phil. That idea is both absurd and terrifying, and perhaps that's Clint's answer right there. 

“You will once the time's right.” She says it with absolute certainty.

“How d'you know that?”

“Because you and Phil seem like a pretty sure thing.” Nat smiles at him. “And because you know what love is despite your many protestations to the contrary.”

Clint sighs. “I need to talk to Phil.”

Nat pats his hand. “Yes. Because chances are that he's as freaked out as you are. Perhaps even more so.”

“Right, yeah.” Clint wonders if there's any way he can see Phil tonight. He doesn't want to talk about something this important on the phone.

“Now eat your donut before it's entirely cold.” Nat pushes the [paper bag](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9411919842/sizes/l/in/photostream/) closer.

Clint fishes out a perfect apple cider donut and hums in appreciation when the first burst of crunchy sugar gives away to chewy, doughy perfection.

**

Clint texts Phil on the way to the subway: _Miss you_. When he emerges on 57th, Phil has replied with _Me too_.

_Is there any way I can see you tonight?_

It takes ten minutes for Phil to respond. _Maybe. I'm working the late shift until 10. Too late?_

Clint doesn't care if Phil gets off work at 3am. He just needs to see him. _No. Come over after._

_Ok. Might get later than that._

Clint wonders exactly how much later. He's bound to nod off if Phil only gets out of work after midnight, and of course his fucking doorbell broke last week. Clint has slept through his phone more times than he can remember so it's likely Phil would be stranded outside his building if Clint falls asleep. _I'll drop off my spare keys._

_That's ok. We can meet tomorrow._

That is definitely not okay with Clint. _It's no trouble._ Perhaps Phil doesn't want Clint to show up at the station. He might not have told anyone they're dating, and dropping off a set of keys would raise questions. _Unless you don't want me to?_

A few minutes pass. _Only if you really don't mind. Will be in meetings all afternoon, so leave keys at front._

_Okay. See u tonight._

**

Clint heads downtown after work. He walks up to the counter at the Second Precinct and finds himself face-to-face with a Detective Sitwell. “Um, hi. I want to drop this off for Detective Coulson.” He slides an envelope across the counter.

“Clint Barton?” Sitwell asks.

“Yes?”

Sitwell looks him up and down. He picks up the envelope. “Those the keys?”

Clint nods. Apparently, Phil has told at least one person about them.

“I'll pass these along. It's good to put a face to a name.”

“Phil talks about me?” Clint blurts out.

Sitwell looks put upon. “All the damn time.”

Clint tries to stifle a smile. 

Sitwell sighs and mutters something like “birds of a feather” under his breath.

“Thanks for getting those to Phil.”

Sitwell makes shooing motions, saying “Can I help you?” to the person in line behind Clint.

**

Clint wakes up when he hears keys in the door. “Phil?”

“Yeah,” comes the soft answer from across the room. “Go back to sleep,” 

“What time is it?” It has to be late because Clint was fast asleep. He hears Phil drop his bag and toe off his shoes. His footsteps creak on the wooden floor.

“Almost two. You don't need to stay up.” 

The bathroom door clicks shut and the sound of running water filters through it. Clint dozes off until Phil climbs up the ladder to the bed. He slides under the sheets and Clint reaches for him in an almost instinctual need to curl up close. His skin is cool under Clint's hands; he smells like rain. 

“Hey,” Phil whispers. He claims part of Clint's pillow. 

Clint nuzzles his neck and feels a hand weave into his hair. 

“About this morning,” Phil begins.

Clint hums but doesn't bother with more of an acknowledgment. Now that Phil's next to him—warm and safe and _there_ \--he just wants to sleep. 

“I didn't mean to say that, but I meant it.” It's so carefully worded that it sounds like something that Phil pondered the whole day. The next part isn't quite so composed. “I know it's way too early for—for this, and I probably freaked you out, but I—I wanted you to know that it wasn't just a throwaway line.”

Adrenaline is surging through Clint, piercing through the fuzziness. “I was a little freaked out, yeah. But it's okay now. It's just that—”

“Feelings are hard?”

Clint smiles, glad that Phil remembered. “Yeah.”

Phil's arm comes around Clint and his hand settles low on the small of his back. “I was worried you might—that I fucked this up. Us, I mean.”

“No,” Clint says, incisive. “You didn't.”

“Well, when you asked me to come over tonight, I figured that we're probably okay.”

“We are. But next time, give a guy some warning before you spring a big emotional declaration on him.”

Phil's laugh rumbles through his chest. “Okay.” 

Clint draws Phil into a kiss. It's the best way he knows of reassuring him, and of communicating to Phil that he likes him too, rather a lot. Despite agreeing that they're okay, Phil's holding back, which is unacceptable. Clint was going to keep this nice and easy, but Phil's uncertainty makes him take a turn for something less graceful and more desperate. Clint kisses him until the tension seeps out of Phil's body. 

“Better?” When Phil nods, he slides his hand down Phil's stomach. “D'you want...?”

Phil grasps his wrist. “I'm really tired.”

“Yeah, me too, actually.” He diverts his hand to Phil's side. “Oh hey, if it's after midnight, it's officially my birthday.”

“It's your birthday? June 18?” 

“Yup.”

“Why didn't you say something sooner?”

“'s not a big deal.” Clint still isn't used to people making a fuss about his birthday. It mostly went unnoticed when he was growing up.

“Yes, it is,” Phil says, all soft, as if it pains him that Clint was so dismissive. “Do you have any plans?”

“Nat always throws me a surprise party. Which means that she invites Bruce and Steve over to my place for cake and drinks, and Bruce usually brings Betty. And Steve, well, that always depends.” Clint wonders if Steve might bring someone this year. “Um, you're invited, too. If you can make it.”

“Of course—Clint, of course I'll be there.” He sounds almost offended by the suggestion that he might not make it to Clint's strange birthday gathering.

“I thought you worked the late shift all week.”

Phil uses the hand on Clint's back to pull him closer. “I'll work something out.” He brushes a kiss across Clint's lips. “Happy Birthday.”

Clint almost panics again at how much affection Phil manages to convey in those two words, especially now that he's aware that Phil—well, that Phil cares that much. But Clint is willing to get used to that.

**

The next morning Clint wakes up to Phil's nose tucked against his neck and his fingers curled loosely against his back, still in deep sleep, and it's the best start to a birthday in years.

**

Nat comes over in the afternoon. Clint has done precisely nothing the entire day aside from getting arepas at Caracas for lunch. He always takes the day off and spends it with Natasha. It's a tradition they've managed to hold on to for most of the years they've known each other.

She pulls Clint into a long hug and whispers “Happy Birthday” into his ear.

Clint holds her close, once again grateful that she's in his life. When she hands him a plain brown paper [box](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/10763429133/), he smiles. “You stopped at Butterlane.” Nat always brings something sweet for Clint on his birthday even though there will be cake later. “Which ones did you get?” Clint carries the box over to the breakfast bar and flips it open to reveal two [cupcakes](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/10763264354/).

Nat points left, then right. “Chocolate with maple pecan frosting and banana with peanut butter. Any preferences?”

“Uhh, chocolate.”

Carefully picking up the cupcake, she sticks a small candle in it and lights it. “Make a wish.”

Clint doesn't have to think about what to wish for—for Nat to remain the best friend he's ever had and for Phil to continue to put up with him. He blows out the candle and plucks it out of the frosting. He takes a big bite out of the cupcake and groans. “I swear these are laced with crack.”

Nat smiles at him and slides an envelope across the bar. “That's your gift.” She sounds a little nervous.

Curious, Clint opens the envelope. It's a card; there's a photo of cardinal sitting on a snowy branch on the front, and inside, Nat wrote _Hope you have long underwear_ underneath the generic birthday message. There's a folded-up piece of paper, too. Clint unfolds it and nearly stops breathing. It's a reservation for the [Sax-Zim Winter Birding Festival](http://travel.nytimes.com/2013/01/20/travel/in-a-minnesota-bog-a-festival-of-birds.html). “Nat,” he whispers. “That's—that's too much.”

She shakes her head and grasps his hand, squeezing. Her eyes are bright. “I know you've been wanting to go for a long time. That John wanted to take you. I've had a good year, and—these are for two people, and I thought we could—but I understand if you'd rather go with Phil—”

Clint can't help pulling her into another hug. “Thank you. Of course I want to go with you. I wouldn't want to go with anyone else.”

She nods against his shoulder and holds on for a few more moments before pulling away. “I hope you realize just how fucking cold northern Minnesota will be in February.”

“That's part of the fun,” Clint teases. 

Nat rolls her eyes and walks over to the fridge. “Just so you know, I'm not getting frostbite because you just have to see one more owl.”

“Yeah, yeah.” They both know that she's going to stick by his side during the entire trip, braving frigid temperatures without complaint so Clint can see great gray owls and boreal chickadees.

Peering into the fridge, she sighs. “Really, two bottles of beer?”

“I've been busy.” The 'with Phil' is implied.

“Of course.” She grabs Clint's keys and her cupcake. “Wouldn't be your birthday if there wasn't at least one liquor store run.”

Clint opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and follows her out the door.

**

They're making sangria when keys jingle in the door and Phil steps into the apartment. Clint is in front of him in three steps and kisses him before Phil can even get a word out. Sure, they've last seen each other only a few hours ago, but fuck it, Clint has been missing Phil already. The way Phil melts against him suggests that he feels the same way.

“Hi,” Clint whispers against his lips.

“Hey.” Phil clears his throat. “Natasha,” he adds with a nod. A slight flush spreads across his cheeks.

Clint realizes that the kiss was perhaps a little too indecent for company, but it's just Nat. “Glad you're here.”

Phil smiles. “Me too.”

There's a pained noise from across the room. “I seem to suddenly remember that I need...something, so I'm going to leave you two alone while I get that thing.” Nat walks past Clint and gives him a pointed look. “Remember that I have a key and that I won't knock.”

“Got it. I won't be bending Phil over the couch, then.”

“See to it that you don't,” she affirms. “Or at least be quick about it.”

Clint pretends to be offended. “Oh, there wouldn't be anything quick about it.” 

Nat shakes her head and pulls the door closed behind her.

Phil stares after her with an unreadable impression and Clint hopes he isn't offended by their banter. In a hoarse voice, Phi; says, “Let's add that to the list of things to do later. After everyone's left tonight.”

Clint's brain is momentarily overloaded by the simultaneous insights that Phil plans to stay over and apparently wants to be fucked over the couch. “Sure, that's, yeah—really?”

Phil looks at him with dark eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Best birthday ever.

Phil takes a deep breath and gestures toward the bathroom. “I'm going to take my contacts out.”

Clint nods and watches him go. It's probably for the best because he isn't sure if he really could have kept his hands off Phil and he doesn't want Nat to walk in on anything more compromising than a sloppy kiss.

When Phil comes out of the bathroom, Clint has finished chopping peaches for the sangria and has calmed down enough that the sight of Phil in glasses—not to mention a nicely fitting pair of jeans and T-shirt—merely causes a pang in his chest. 

“I got you something,” Phil says and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a gift. “I saw this on the way here from the subway and—well.”

Clint tears at the paper. Inside is a thin [book ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/9630559935/sizes/l/) called _Still the Same Hawk: Reflections on New York and Nature_.

“I know you don't read much,” Phil says. “But I saw it and I thought of you right away. It's short essays about nature in the city and there's one that's about birds nesting on various buildings and—”

Clint stops the flood of words with a hand against Phil's chest. “Hey.” Phil meets his eyes. “Thank you. I like reading about birds. I'm sure the stories in here are wonderful.”

Phil nods. “Maybe I could read it, too, once you're done with it.”

Clint wonders what he's done to deserve someone like Phil. “I can't believe you got me something for my birthday considering you only found out about it yesterday.”

“Well, to be honest, I wasn't going to. I like to take some time to ponder gifts and I didn't expect to find something on such short notice. But then there it was.” He shrugs and pushes his glasses higher up on his nose.

Clint is tempted to say something like Phil being there with him would have been enough of a gift, but swallows it down. Instead, he steps close, noses along Phil's cheek and presses a soft kiss to his jaw. When Phil's arms come around him, Clint feels a deep contentment settle in him.

**

The “surprise” guests start trickling in around seven. Bruce and Betty arrive first. They bring the cake, like they do every year. There's a bakery near their place that makes the most amazing lemon buttercream cake with raspberries. Clint's been looking forward to it for weeks.

“So, how are you?” Clint asks Bruce after receiving a long and rather wonderful hug. “I have barely heard from you in weeks.”

Bruce glances at Betty. “Things have been good. Busy. The falcon is doing remarkably well, by the way. You and Phil should stop by sometime.”

“Sure, yeah. Maybe next weekend? If you can be there.”

Bruce nods. “I even got approval to include him in the migration study we're doing, so we'll be fitting him with a tracker. And he needs a name.” He looks at Phil, who is having a conversation with Nat across the room, and then back at Clint.

“Oh, uhh, I guess I—we—could come up with one.” It's a nice gesture to allow him and Phil to name the young bird; one that causes odd flip-floppy feelings in Clint's chest. 

“We also have some other news,” Betty says with a slight nudge to Bruce's side. 

“Ah yes, sorry, we do.” Bruce slides an arm around her. “Do you want to tell him?”

Clint looks back and forth between them.

Betty beams at him. “We're having a baby.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Clint says, having expected to hear that they're moving to a new apartment—he knows they've been looking. He didn't even know that they had been talking about kids.

Bruce ducks his head, and Betty throws her arms around Clint's neck with a laugh. “Don't worry, we'll rope you in for babysitting duties.”

“Uhhh.” Clint doesn't know the first thing about babies. “Congratulations.”

“We've known for a while, but we wanted to wait until we were sure that everything would be fine and...” Bruce trails off at the sound of loud voices floating in from the stairs.

Clint can make out Steve's voice. He sounds agitated. Clint doesn't hear every word Steve says because he's making an effort to keep his voice down even though he's not entirely succeeding. “I can't believe this” is one of the phrases Clint catches; “Clint's one of my best friends,” is another one, much louder. 

The other person isn't so keen on keeping things down. “Steve, babe, you know exactly what you signed up for!”

“'Babe'?” Clint repeats, exchanging a surprised glance with Bruce.

Steve finally shoulders his way through Clint's door, carrying two huge bags that appear to be from Murray's Cheese. Behind him is none other than Tony Stark. 

Well, well, well. Seems like that situation finally sorted itself out. Clint seeks out Nat's gaze and she gives him a thumbs up. 

“Hi,” Steve says as he deposits the bags on Clint's kitchen counter. “I'm sorry if you had to overhear any of that, but Tony—”

“So good to finally meet you,” Tony says, pushing past Steve to shake Clint's hand. “I've heard so much about you. Only good things, of course, you know Steve.” He uses their clasped hands to pull Clint closer. “There's a slight situation outside. There might be some paparazzi. Outside. Possibly camping out.” Tony waves his free hand dismissively. “But no worries, Pep—Pepper Potts, my _life_ —and please, Steve, note that I said 'life,' not 'love,' is on it. Restraining orders, the whole shebang. Should be resolved within the hour.”

Clint is trying to make sense of what he's just heard. “Paparazzi?”

Steve rakes a hand through his hair. “Tony was not exactly subtle about getting us here. I suggested that we take a cab, but he insisted on taking one of his cars—”

Tony finally lets go of Clint's hand and presses his palm to his chest. “A car? I'm insulted. That's a Bugatti-Veyron you're talking about.”

“It's bright red, too,” Steve huffs. “Like a beacon. I'm sorry, Clint.”

“We brought a little peace offering.” Tony gestures at the bags. “Happy Birthday.”

To Clint, it looks like they bought out the store. He sees cheese and crackers for every foreseeable meal in his near future. “Yeah, thank you, that's very, um, generous. Why don't you help yourselves to some sangria?”

Steve and Tony continue to bicker as they fill their glasses and Clint can only hope that the sex makes it all worth it for them.

**

A little while later, Clint steals Phil away from the party and takes him up to the roof. The sun has already set behind the houses and dusk is settling around them. 

“Just wanted to have you to myself for a little while,” Clint mumbles.

“Yeah?” Phil looks pleased. “This is quite the view.”

They're looking uptown. Clint's building is tall enough to offer a view over the East Village. Even the Empire State Building is visible if you tilt your head.

“I like it,” Clint says and tries to look at the familiar spread of buildings through Phil's point of view, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Natasha gave me the shovel talk, by the way.”

Clint smiles. He had seen that Phil and Nat were caught up in an intense conversation for quite some time. “That means she likes you.”

“That's not the impression I got.”

“She wouldn't have bothered otherwise. It means that she expects you to stick around.” Clint will have to thank her. Phil may not have entirely realized it, but by threatening Phil with god knows what, she also revealed how important Clint is to her. For Nat, that's a huge gesture.

“Well, in that case, I'm honored.” 

The sky turns into a cascade of blue. The inky tone of nighttime already covers the east, but Clint is in no mood to leave yet. A song floats up to them, a slow beat and a soft melody.

Phil holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Clint doesn't really dance, but he laces their fingers together nevertheless. Phil pulls him close. Hands wind around Clint's lower back and he drapes his arms around Phil's shoulders, leaning in until their cheeks touch. They sway to the music and Phil leads them in uncoordinated half-turns around the roof. 

Clint closes his eyes. There's a first taste of summer humidity in the air; soon the city will be drowned in sweltering heat. But tonight, a breeze cuts through the evening air and swirls around them. It makes the warmth that comes off Phil's body pleasant and welcome. When one of Phil's hands sweeps up Clint's back to settle at his nape, Clint lets his head drop onto Phil's shoulder. He sighs.

“Hope that was a happy sigh,” Phil murmurs.

“Yeah. Very.” It's odd how familiar Phil has already become only weeks after they first met, but it's undeniable that he has lodged himself in Clint's life and heart. “Can you...”

“What?”

Clint hesitates. It feels foolish and a little dangerous to ask for this. “Can you say it again? What you said to me yesterday morning?”

Phil's hands jerk. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Phil's lips brush against the shell of Clint's ear. “Love you.”

The words rush through Clint. He wants to hear them again and again and again. “Thank you,” he whispers. He straightens so he can look at Phil. “I'm not good with—with words a lot of the time, but I hope you know that—that—” And that's as far as Clint gets before his throat closes up.

Phil's eyes are so, so fond and filled with understanding. “I know. Of course I know. You've already told me in so many ways.”

It's the best thing Phil could have said. Clint still thinks he isn't all that good at handling feelings or relationships or anything long-term, but maybe he's wrong about that. Maybe they really, truly have a shot at this. He gathers Phil close, unashamed to cling because Phil is clinging right back.

They're still holding on to each other when the door to the roof creaks open. “Sorry to interrupt,” Nat says. “Can you come down to cut the cake? I've had to fend off Stark three times already, and Bruce and Betty want to head home soon.”

Clint disentangles himself from Phil just far enough to keep him in a loose embrace. “Come over here for a sec,” he calls out to Nat.

She strolls over to them. “Yes?”

Clint hooks an arm around her and pulls her against his side. She yelps when he kisses her cheek. “Birthday privilege.”

“Ugh, don't abuse it,” she chides but leans against Clint. “Maybe you should get out while you still can,” she says to Phil.

“Not a chance.” Phil glances at Nat, who gives him an approving nod, and then his eyes settle on Clint, calm and steady.

 

(end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos! They've brought me much joy. I have plans for a number of fics in this verse, so there will be more.
> 
> The following songs helped me to write this story:
> 
> Junip – Line of Fire  
> John Grant – Take Me to Marz  
> Cat Powers – Colors and the Kids  
> Mumford & Sons – After the Storm  
> Phosphorecent – Song for Zula  
> Great Lake Swimmers – The Great Exhale  
> Great Lake Swimmers – River's Edge


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